Inquisitor Carrow and the Phoenix Fiasco
by littlewhitecat
Summary: With Carrow forced into sick leave, much to his horror Timothy finds himself temporarily the Senior UnderSecretary to th Minister of Magic. Between dealing with political plots, unexpected business manoeuvres and the machinations of a bored Carrow, can he survive the year?
1. Chapter 1

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

 _I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

* * *

Author's Note

So I've been very much off the radar for a while fan-fic wise. I'll admit I've been sulking a bit about the truly terrible "Vigilantes Vague", tried to write something else, which didn't turn out too well. Actually it was appalling and there were gold lame leggings in it too. Don't ask.

While I was writing "Vigilantes Vague" a number of events occurred which caused a certain amount of disruption. I had a couple of close relatives move back in with me, with all the chaos involved likes rooms filled with boxes of books, and also getting used to living with twice as many people. I don't do change well.

This was also the summer I signed up to White Collar Boxing. Which was a fantastic experience, and I really improved my sparring skills massively. I also ended up with a near constant headache that only really eased off after the actual fight. (I went the full three rounds but lost on points. Still, great experience) It seriously didn't do my concentration any favours and I'm unsure as to repeating the experience. Maybe I should do White Collar MMA instead…

Anyway, it's like "Vigilantes Vague" has been this massive road block that I can't get past. So instead of complaining about it I decided to grab the problem by its ears and give the kicking it truly deserved. After a couple of false starts I printed the entire thing off and physically cut and pasted the bits I wanted to keep into a new frame work that I could work with, splicing in the new bits of plot as I went. So there it is, if a story is getting you down attack it with scissors.

Some bits of it you will recognise from "Vigilantes Vague" especially in the first few chapters. After that, well…all bets are off.

I'm going to keep to my normal posting schedule, the first of the month. So, here it is, the first chapter of the re-write…

* * *

 **Inquisitor Carrow and the Phoenix Fiasco**

Chapter 1

Carrow glowered down at the offensive little man who was currently bunkered behind the large and ugly mahogany desk of his office. How in the God-Emperor's name had he managed to get into this situation, and with Cornelius Fudge, of all people?

"…got disembowelled only a month ago," the pitiful meat-sack whined in his annoying little voice, "it's quite remarkable that you're actually alive, not forgetting being upright and walking around, but your Healer still hasn't cleared you. The rules are very clear in case such as this, Allesandor. Until your healer has filled in the relevant paperwork stating your return to full health, you can't be reinstated. I'm sorry, Allesandor, but that's the rules." Fudge shrugged unapologetically, ignoring Carrow's paint-blistering glare.

"Really, don't complain, Allesandor, you should just take the rest of the sick leave, because frankly it's a miracle you're still with us…but what if there's still some unforeseen complication that the healers haven't spotted yet…"

Complication? Carrow looked at Fudge in puzzlement; what was the idiot blithering about? If there had been some sort of unforeseen issue with his injuries, then he'd be dead by now. He was sure that all Healer Slaughter had had to do was stuff his guts back in and stitch him up. Nothing too serious at all.

"…my Great-Uncle Barnabas had this funny little cough, and he refused to take it to the healers." Fudge poked one pudgy finger in the air to emphasise his point. "Not only did it not go away, it _got worse_. Turned out he'd got a nasty case of Elmphysema, and ended up with a tree growing out of his throat, and that was the end of him!"

Would anybody notice if he just snapped Fudge's neck? If he propped him up carefully enough, it was likely nobody would notice the difference for days, probably at the point when the smell became too much for the average normal person. They really had no stamina.

"…had an idea," Fudge beamed manically at him, "we all know how easily you get bored!" He laughed uneasily.

Carrow fumed in outrage. He did _not_ get bored. Astartes did not get bored. They were models of stoicism and self-discipline…what if he swiped some haddock or something from the kitchen and stuck it behind the drawers on Fudge's desk? The idiot wouldn't notice for absolutely ages…

"…fantastic opportunity for you. I understand you were a rather popular teacher with a large segment of the student population, so I'm sure they'll be absolutely delighted to see you back as the Defence teacher…"

" _What?!_ " Carrow stared at the Minister who was now quivering behind his desk like a terrified deer. With what looked like an act of super-human will, Fudge pulled himself together.

"Exactly, Allesandor, Dumbledore has been struggling to find a new Defence teacher for this coming school year, and since you're _available,_ and already have experience in the position…well, he could hardly turn you down, could he?"

Carrow stared; he could actually see the logic there, worryingly enough.

"See, I knew you would see the sense in this," Fudge smiled brightly at him, "and while you are there," he leaned forward as much as his rotund stomach would allow, "I need you to _inspect_ the school, look at how it's run, at the staff's activities… _all_ of them, especially Dumbledore. I don't know…he's talking to people, making new contacts with people like Narcissa Malfoy of all things...what if it's some sort of drive for power…" He faded off, staring anxiously into the distance. "Would...would you do that for me, please?"

Raising an eyebrow, Carrow sighed at the incompetence of the man. "Really, Cornelius. I can assure you that Albus Dumbledore is currently far too busy to be plotting against you. Why would he want to?"

"Please, Allesandor," Fudge begged pathetically. And he'd been doing so well up to this point too.

"Have you tried bribing him?" Carrow asked, more than a little exasperated.

Fudge stared, his train of thought temporarily derailed. "Erm…what…I, well…"

Sighing heavily, Carrow shook his head sadly. Fudge would be eaten alive in the Imperium, probably for mild entertainment, but even here in this soft and sheltered little world, how had he survived in politics? "You can bribe a man with more than coin. You just need to _understand_ them, what makes them tick as it were."

This was apparently beyond the annoying little man's thought capacity, so Carrow turned to the annoying idiot's proposal, ignoring his pathetic twittering.

An inspection and analysis of the inner workings of the School. Carrow considered the undertaking for a moment; this could actually work rather nicely in his favour. He could leave Timothy where he was, currently gaining valuable experience of the inner workings of the local political system. In the meantime, he would take on the role of Defence Professor once more, which, while hardly the most taxing of duties would also give him ample opportunity to assess the talents and abilities of those in their last year, prime recruitment material. It would also give him ample opportunity to assess the quality of the education already available, which meant he could provide Timothy with all the data he needed for the new educational reforms that were the next step in reforming this sleepy parochial little culture.

Yes, this could work to his advantage. It would also leave him free to investigate the possible corruption within the Department of Muggle Relations that he had been saving for a rainy day. If he was "lucky", it might just be some greedy idiots with their fingers in the departmental budget, in which case he'd gladly expose them to public scrutiny. He'd be very disappointed if it turned out to only be that, he had a feeling that there was a lot bit more to it than sticky fingers.

"I will do this," he announced to a delighted Fudge.

"Excellent, excellent," the Minister burbled as he happily bounced in his chair seemingly oblivious to reality.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Damn it, Timothy growled round his cigarette as he paced along the pavement, coat flapping around his legs. Bloody Carrow and his bloody meetings, and since the giant lump had picked the Arena of all places for this delightful affair it could only mean he was seriously up to no good.

And now he was late to whatever shenanigans Carrow had cooked up this time.

Huffing out smoke in frustration, he crossed the street, taking the route that led to the back of the airfield. If he nipped across that, he could cut through to Aquila Industries and the R&D department, and of course, the attached Arena.

A dumper truck rumbled past him followed by another. He quickened his pace, worry knawing at his stomach. Last time he'd been down here, this almost a lane had led to a simple metal gate which gave access to the back of the airfield. It had also at some point been the main access for a range of agricultural buildings too, something to do with a dairy he thought, they'd been derelict for years, but now…one side of the lane was gone, the verge with its straggling hedge vanished, a swathe of new tarmac in its place, a new security fence on the other side, slender twigs sporting a few leaves poking up from the earth on the other side that would eventually form a new hedge.

This was odd and rather unexpected…

There was a security barrier across the lane…and beyond…the runway had been extended and there were a series of hangars, several already housing ugly boxy craft definitely designed by Carrow, maintenance people swarming around them.

Closer though was an ugly concrete building, what was probably an airport terminal at a guess, a large Brutalist looking thing, a series of abstract sculptured pillars marching across its front, that were to Timothy's utter disgust in the process of being gilded, the high-vis vests of the work-crew fluorescent yellow dots that crawled over and around the building. The whole effect was less 60's concrete chic, more South-American dictator…

Nearby a team were erecting a sign that proudly proclaimed _British Eagle Airlines_ in black and gold, the stylised eagle logo (in gold of course, Timothy rolled his eyes at Carrow's predictability) glaring proudly into the distance.

"You've got to be kidding me," Timothy growled, "unbelievable." The complete _bastard_ , starting another company without telling anyone…

"Can I help you?" one of the workmen had drifted over from the sign, eyeing him suspiciously from underneath his white hardhat.

"No…no," Timothy edged away not wanting to get involved in whatever this was, "I'm fine thanks."

.oOo.

Entering the Arena was rather like stepping into a small corner of Carrow's mind. The whole place seemed dedicated to the glorification of extreme violence. The large circular space could give a football stadium a run for its money on size alone, except that this arena was filled with an artificial landscape complete with a small wood, rocky outcrops and boulders and a waterfall that fed into a small pool that fed the stream which wound its way across the arena floor before disappearing through an arched opening underneath the viewing platform itself.

In the intricate steel work of the roof, lighting, which Timothy suspected were actually magical, helped recreate the feeling of an overcast summer's day. There was even a system to produce rain and even snow and hail. It really was quite a remarkable feat of engineering.

Not to forget the viewing platform itself. Timothy sidled into the opulent space, attempting to not draw attention to himself. The whole thing jutted out into the landscape enabling one to have a full and unobstructed view of all the action. It also appeared to have been designed with some pretty decadent entertaining in mind, what with the plushly upholstered seating, the beautifully carved marble, and statues of semi-naked ladies representing various aspects of the martial mind. The whole thing was pretty ridiculous. He breathed a sigh of exasperation as he looked round, taking in the odd gathering.

It appeared that the people from GE Inc. had turned up to deliver Carrow's new toy, the rotary canon, and of course Carrow being as he was, he'd taken this simple test of a new weapon and turned it into an impromptu party, the people from GE Inc. rubbing shoulders with Aquila Ind. Personnel, mainly the R&D lot, and of course some of Carrow's personal entourage, the vampires dressed in their UV proof body-gloves and masks. Actually, he had little to talk about in this regard as some of them were his people, curious as to why Carrow was so excited, and wanting to be forewarned before anything really dangerous happened. Wulfric was hovering as usual; he edged cautiously past the man trying not to attract his hyper-sensitive senses. Even Rita had turned up.

It apparently wasn't at all what the GE Inc. people had been expecting. Timothy raised an eyebrow as he looked round the people currently crowding the viewing platform. Frankly, he wasn't sure he blamed them; if he wasn't initiated into the ways of Carrow then he'd be pretty spooked too. This was all so…blatant, contrived as well. What was Carrow up to?

He shuffled up to the nearest telescope, one of several that were set up along the balustrade specifically so that spectators could get a better look at the violence occurring below. Carrow appeared to be up to his usual violence, striding across the artificial landscape with his new toy, so he swept the telescope up for a closer look at the wall paintings that towered above the artificial landscape in arched concrete niches. They had to be Carrow's handiwork; or at least even if he didn't paint them himself he certainly designed them. They looked like propaganda pictures for a violent fascist state in some war-torn future. Giant soldiers, male and female, gazed down, their expressions stern and resolute as they hefted their weapons, tanks of ugly and unfamiliar design, aircraft taking part in a dog-fight above a desert streaked world, a gigantic space ship covered in baroque encrustations ploughing through the darkness of space…

"Mr Faulkes…Tim! Where have you been?" Wulfric growled behind him.

Timothy cringed a moment not taking his eyes of the ridiculous space ship. "Just took a short-cut that turned out not to be a short-cut…did you know…"

"A short-cut," Wulfric echoed suspiciously.

"Yes, just a short-cut," Timothy turned to give him a one-eyed glare, "interesting too. Did you know Carrow has bought…started a new airline?"

Wulfric's glare turned to puzzlement.

"Quite," he gave the werewolf a tight smile, "the beginnings of a new airport, that's all I found, definitely not hazardous to my health. Okay."

"Okay," Wulfric said slowly, "an airport…really?"

"It's what it looked like," Timothy said with a shrug.

"So the Big Man's up to something," Wulfric sighed.

"When isn't he," Rita asked from his other side, ""Do you think Mr Carrow based the wall-paintings on things he actually saw?"

Timothy looked up a moment from his art-appreciation. "I think it highly likely."

Rita considered this for a moment. "So," she said slowly, "that means there are worlds out there, actual planets like ours with weather and plants and water and creatures living on them, like right now."

"Yes…yes…right at this moment," Timothy said, "living creatures, _intelligent_ living creatures going about their lives, farming, building, making art and culture, having wars…" he shook himself, feeling thoroughly spooked.

"Have you tried the buffet yet?" Wulfric chirped, desperately trying to lighten the mood, "Cook's really pushed the boat out and made a cheese and pineapple hedgehog."

"Ah yes," Timothy muttered, "the cheese and pineapple hedgehog, the very height of haute cuisine."

From below came a crackle of fire as Carrow disintegrated yet another target.

"Travel between the stars," Rita sighed as she stared off into the distance, "it's utterly mind boggling…"

"Come on you two," Wulfric huffed in amusement grabbing their elbows, "less introspection, more coffee and sandwiches. You both look like you need it."

Sighing, Timothy and Rita exchanged looks. "Honestly, Wulfric," Timothy said as they trailed over to the buffet table, "it's really disturbing when you start channelling my mother."

Rita smirked at Wulfric's indignant expression. "Look, I've just got your best interests at heart, like, you know, not letting you starve to death."

"I know, I know," Timothy patted his arm, "see," he grabbed a paper plate and dumped a couple of sandwiches on it, "I'm taking note of your concern."

Wulfric did not look impressed.

"Erm, excuse me…but this isn't how these things normally go," the nervous man from GE Inc. twittered, a couple of his colleagues hanging back behind him.

Timothy eyed him suspiciously. "How do you mean?" he asked.

"Well…well, there's all _this_ and…and we get ushered into an indoor _arena_ …landscaped tournament thingie…I don't know how to describe this place," he waved an arm out to encompass the view from the observation platform they were currently stood on.

Everyone looked around to see what he meant, including one of the researchers from the R&D department who seemed to have done something odd to her face that made her look as if she'd eaten loads of baby acromantula, and then just left the legs hanging out of her mouth like some peculiar beard.

He'd walked past her and a friend deep as he'd entered.

"… _been thinking about getting another arm added."_

" _But Bethany, you've already got three…"_

Timothy had decided it was probably best not to enquire.

"We generally call it the _Arena_ ," Timothy said eyeing the man from the corner of his eye, "I understand it's very useful for realistic tests such as these, among other things." He stared down at where Carrow was stalking slowly through some shrubby trees, his new weapon held at the ready. "At least this way you get to see that the modifications that were made are successful," he said.

"What? You mean like the _carry handle_ and the loops for a shoulder strap, not to mention making the trigger assembly and grips suitable for jumbo sized fingers?" the man said sarcastically. "We normally mount this particular model of rotary canon on helicopters. Not much call for shoulder straps...or hand grips."

There really wasn't much he could say to that, Timothy thought, as he leaned on the balustrade, watching as Carrow came across yet another target, a pig carcass, spring loaded to suddenly pop up from behind a shrub. A sharp crackle from Carrow's new toy turned it into so much red mist and fleshy pulp.

"What's that?" the man asked suspiciously.

"Pig carcass." Timothy blinked non-plussed as the man looked utterly horrified. "What did you expect him to use? People?" Actually, Carrow probably would, given the opportunity.

Oh dear, the man looked really offended now. "Don't you do tests like these with your weapons?" Timothy asked, trying to defuse the situation.

"Well…yes, sort of…held tests and…"

"Can we watch too?" Hermione Granger asked brightly from behind them. Timothy turned to find the summer gathering of the Defence Club standing there in all their khaki mud-splattered glory hovering near the entrance, watching him expectantly.

Giving them an indulgent smile, Timothy waved them in. "No sitting on the balustrade though, remember."

"Yes, sir," they obediently chorused, trooping in with Tiffany and Felix trailing after them, much to Timothy's amusement. Like little ducklings, he thought.

"What the…" the man muttered edging away from the small crowd of weapon wielding children.

"Some young friends of Mr Carrow's," Timothy explained cheerfully, as Carrow exploded another pig carcass in a crackle of gun fire.

"When do we get armour like that?" Millicent Bulstrode asked wistfully as Carrow scrambled up a ten foot cliff as if it were nothing.

"Probably never." Timothy said. "That armour is completely unique to Mr Carrow, so we will most likely never see its like again," _thank goodness_ , he added internally, "though I understand Professor Schmidt is attempting to reverse engineer it."

"Oh," Millicent sighed sadly.

"Huh," the man said, "if your expert manages it, you could make an absolute fortune. Think of the governments who'd love to get their hands on something like that."

Timothy gave the idiot man a withering glare; no, he would not like to think of the sort of governments who'd like armour like that.

A flat boom sounded from below, accompanied by a vivid flash of light. It appeared that Carrow had taken other things to try out along with his new toy, given the size of that crater. Some sort of grenade by the looks of it, but it seemed odd given the steaming puddle of molten something it had left behind. Wonderful, he grimaced, another new product for the upcoming Expo then, which typically the Board were already getting the jitters over, mainly of the " _will we be banned this year?_ " sort.

The man from GE Inc. just silently stared, seemingly transfixed by the scene of martial something or other that Carrow was busily displaying. Though at the moment, he seemed to be changing the ammunition of his new toy. Timothy glared at the box the ribbon of cartridges were spooling out of. That looked suspiciously like an Aquila product. What was Carrow up to now?

Movement by the doorway caught his attention. Hopefully it wasn't Artemis determined to join the fun. He wasn't sure the GE Inc. lot could take much more excitement. To his relief, it was Percy Weasley holding up a data slate, the word "Diggory" scrawled across the screen.

So he'd found him, maybe. Timothy's heart gave a tentative leap of relief; when Cedric Diggory had failed to turn up for his summer internship at Carrow's Ministerial offices, Timothy had been extremely concerned, but with everything going on he hadn't had the chance to go digging but then Percy had volunteered for the task.

"I won't be a moment," he said vaguely as he strode to the door.

Wulfric gave him a disapproving glare as he pointed to his abandoned plate of food, Rita hiding her smile.

"Sir," Percy greeted him, a worried little frown on his usually serious face, "I've been unable to find Mr Diggory's exact location but I think I may have found a vague possibility." He tapped at his data-slate, scrolling through a menu of files before selecting one. "Look," he said, holding it up for his perusal.

"The R&D Department," Timothy frowned as he looked over the data displayed on the screen, "what the heck is he doing there? He was supposed to be at the Ministry…oh…the _Garage_?" He gave Percy an enquiring look.

Percy shrugged. "According to the gossip, that's what they're calling Professor Schmidt's lab, the R&D lot anyway. Even for Ravenclaws, they're not very sane, are they?"

Timothy shook his head in exasperation. "Nerds," he sighed, "but why would Carrow divert him there? His grades were good but…"

The distinct crackle of the rotary canon was followed by multiple whistling sounds and then a tooth rattling " _Whoomph!_ " Timothy turned in horror at the strangely familiar sound.

The GE Inc. man stood pale and stunned, mouth hanging open as he stared down into the arena. That damn sword in Yugoslavia when he tried fiddling with some runes, Timothy thought as he stalked past, Percy trailing after him, and the R&D department had taken all his notes on it and _done_ things. Looking over the balustrade, he groaned in frustration. Below, Carrow stood by a craggy boulder which was now peppered with a series of perfectly circular craters, as if someone had taken a giant ice-cream scoop to the rock. Nearby was the truncated remains of a jig that should have supported a pig carcass.

There was no pig carcass, not so much as a smear of gore visible on the ground, and Carrow looking disgustingly smug. Timothy glared in frustration; did the giant man not understand about the importance of confidentiality and secrecy when it came to experimental products? They were supposed to be running a business, damn it!

.oOo.

Timothy ground his teeth in frustration as Carrow entered onto the viewing platform, his power armour emitting its teeth aching whine as he strode softly in, the Purgatus of St Seraphim lazily snaking its way across his enormous chest plate, the floor shaking with his huge weight.

The GE Inc. people now looked ready to throw themselves over the balustrade and take their chances in the hostile landscape below. Even the Defence Club were keeping a respectful distance, though their eyes were full of awe and barely contained excitement. Rita had disappeared, though Timothy thought he caught a glimpse of blue as something small crawled under Wulfric's collar.

Carrow lovingly placed his new toy, sans ammunition, on its specially prepared rack, giving it an affectionate wipe with a cloth. He turned to the GE Inc. personnel who cringed back from his looming form.

"Are there particular prayer rites its machine spirit would prefer?" Carrow asked, giving the rotary canon a pat. "Specific machine oils it desires?"

The man from GE Inc. stuttered, his face a strange putty colour, "I, erm…er…" he looked around desperately for help or maybe somewhere to hide.

"Sir… _Sir_!" Timothy sidled up to him ready to do what he wasn't entirely sure. He gulped his nerves away as inhumanly green eyes stared down at him in curiosity, "I was curious as to your…reasons for the display of some of our more experimental products?"

He froze, trying to keep his face as blank and emotionless as possible as Carrow blinked, a sly smile spreading across his face for a moment. The large man glanced back at the shell-shocked visitors for a moment. "I was rather hoping to throw down the gauntlet to them; here is what we can do, now try and beat us."

"You're trying to deliberately start an arms development race," Timothy said slowly, "to what end?"

Carrow shrugged, a curious looking gesture in power armour, "my own amusement? You have to admit the weapons expo is rather tame."

Because the big man was bored. Timothy rubbed at his temples trying to stave off the impending headache. "Right."

"They just need a little encouragement I think," Carrow smiled, obviously thinking his argument completely reasonable, turning to the terrified GE Inc personnel.

Timothy gritted his teeth against the bone-aching whine of the power armour's servos, watching in growing apprehension as Carrow loomed with what he probably thought was a friendly and welcoming smile. Frankly, if someone looked at him like that, Timothy thought, he'd run for the hills.

"Would you like to… _experience_ the joys of the Arena?" Carrow boomed, smile shark like.

"Err…" the GE Inc man stood frozen to the spot edging away slowly, "…wha…"

"Come now, don't be shy," Carrow's smile became even more terrifying, and before Timothy could even think of interfering, the large man had lunged forward, one giant hand ushering the GE Inc delivery person towards the weapons rack. Timothy caught his terrified expression for a moment, but there wasn't a thing he could do as Carrow began pointing out the various guns to him, extolling their particular virtues, before scooping up a Cadia IV and some ammo clips and ushering him towards the steps down.

"Oh well," Wulfric muttered as they all turned to the balustrade, "at least it isn't one of us for a change."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

How had he got himself roped into this? Timothy sighed heavily as he dragged his wardrobe doors open. It wasn't as if he was particularly good friends with Steve, finding him to be an utter and complete twit…and a ruddy bore, but when he told Mum he wasn't going, she'd given him a lecture that had left his ears ringing. Apparently it was unfriendly and unsupportive not to go to his cousin's wedding, whether he knew him that well or not.

"…besides, Tiffany and Tyler will be there, so we're going to need you to fix anything if they have a little accident with their magic, or just generally misbehave with it. My side of the family might be understanding about the carpet suddenly changing colours, but your father's side won't be…"

So that was that. With a tired sigh, he reached for the suit he'd had made in Knockturn. It looked old fashioned, but it was certainly smart and would do the trick, despite (according to Tiffany and Felix) making him look like an Edwardian gangster.

Except it wasn't there. Timothy desperately tried to blink the tiredness from his eyes. _Blast it_. This was bound be Carrow's handiwork; he frantically flipped through the meagre offerings of his wardrobe, his everyday dolman, currently very battered and on the verge of becoming his "mission" outfit, body-glove (absolutely _not_ , especially not when people like Marvin Pratt were going to be there), robe, robe, fatigues, all in threadbare state, but he hadn't had the time to get to the Army Surplus place in town recently, or anywhere else for that matter. Tucked at the back behind his second best great-coat were two unfamiliar hanging travelling garment cases of the sort used for good suits. One of them had a note pinned to it, demanding "Wear Me" in Carrow's unmistakable and rather ugly handwriting.

Grinding his teeth in suppressed rage and frustration, Timothy pulled the covered garments out, hanging them on the wardrobe door while he decided what to do. Should he take a terrifying leap into the unknown, and have a look at what Carrow thought bettered the everyday dolman, or should he just go in his underwear? Heaven knows it would be less humiliating than whatever militaristic baroque monstrosity the Giant Lump was trying to foist on him.

He slumped down into his bedroom chair, face buried in his hands. Maybe a cigarette would calm his nerves, he thought, as he absently rubbed at the scars where his right eye used to be. The doctors and Healers all claimed that it was about as healed as it was going to get, but it still ached, especially in cold weather. A couple of air-freshening charms and the English Heritage loonies wouldn't even know what he'd been up to. The black Russian was a soothing presence as he took a drag, breathing smoke from his nose. Maybe he should just take a look at the bound-to-be-dreadful outfit.

A few minutes later, and his worst fears were confirmed. How the hell was he supposed to be seen near normal people wearing _that_? He stared at the awful, but beautifully made, garments in resigned horror. Time was getting on as well; he checked his watch. He only had a couple of hours before he absolutely had to leave.

Stuff this, he was just going to wear his everyday dolman and look like his usual everyday sort of plank self.

"You can't wear that," Carrow's voice boomed from the bedroom door as he pulled the threadbare garment from his wardrobe.

Timothy snarled in rage. "Well, _I'm_ not wearing _that_." He jabbed an accusing finger at the offensive outfit. "If you think for _ten seconds_ that I'm going to my cousin's _wedding_ looking like a B–movie space Nazi, who's smoked a bad mushroom, you've got another thing coming! So give me back my suit, my nice normal _boring_ suit!"

Carrow gave him a look of polite puzzlement as he stalked forward, his leather cassock swirling elegantly around his ankles. Behind him Artemis lounged in the doorway, delicately sniffing the edge of the carpet, her latest coir rope toy abandoned by her feet.

Plucking the everyday dolman from Timothy's unresisting fingers, he placed it carefully back into the wardrobe. "No. You will wear this outfit, Timothy." Carrow smiled down at him like a sated shark as he loomed over him. "When you go out in public, _Interrogator_ Faulks, you represent me, and the Inquisition, and the Imperium of Man…such as it is. You are a servant of the living God-Emperor himself. Therefore, you have to look the part."

Timothy glared up at him, teeth practically biting through his cigarette. "You don't do this to the Vampires," he hissed, determined to hold his ground over his own clothes, just this once.

"That would be because the Coven aren't my apprentices," Carrow explained, "plus they have better dress sense that you do. Honestly, if I didn't intervene all the time, you'd end up looking like a younger version of that Bernard character."

Reeling back, utterly offended, Timothy fumed in outrage. Never in his entire life had he ever stooped so low as to wear black socks with tan sandals- though that jumper he'd spied Bernard in a couple of days ago hadn't been too bad…

"But that's not the point," he snarled in frustration, "my suit is perfectly acceptable for a wedding. It's smart, formal and completely appropriate for the occasion. _This_ …this is…" he glared at the offending outfit at a complete loss for words.

"Is also smart and extremely formal," Carrow supplied for him, "and also marks you out as a servant of a higher power. They will be in awe of you."

Awe? Timothy blinked in disbelief. Of all the ridiculous, stupid…actually, he didn't have words to describe how he felt about this…this…"I'm not sure awe will be exactly what they will experience," he growled reaching again for his everyday dolman. Carrow gently kicked the door of the wardrobe shut, making the hefty piece of furniture rattle alarmingly. Standing in front of it, he brandished the still covered outfit, smirking down at Timothy in a manner he obviously thought was playful, or friendly even. Personally, it reminded Timothy of Artemis once when she'd spied rabbits in a field and had then managed to upset an entire troupe of Brownies by messily disembowelling one in front of them. He straightened his spine, tilting his head up aggressively as he glared at the giant controlling bully.

Completely unfazed, Carrow raised an eyebrow.

Growling, Timothy stormed forward, grabbing the offensive outfit out of Carrow's hands. "Fine," he snarled at the bemused giant, _"fine,_ " he snapped as he stomped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him so hard it rattled in the doorframe.

He slumped down on the edge of the bath in utter defeat. Why couldn't he just say no to Carrow when it came to these things? He managed it with the running of Aquila Industries all the time, even with some of Carrow's more outlandish demands at the Ministry.

Slowly and miserably, he got dressed, briefly checking his appearance in the bathroom mirror. Yes, he looked utterly ridiculous. Jerking the bathroom door open, he found Carrow had laid out a brand new great-coat on his bed, along with his sword, his Browning and shoulder holster, a peaked cap with Carrow's Inquisitorial seal, a beautifully crisp silk sash in Ravenclaw colours (of course), and shiny knee-high boots. Really shiny patent, mirror-like, knee high boots. Timothy stared at them in horror. Oh, his humiliation was going to be complete. With a heavy heart he finished dressing, attempted to tame his hair, and put his eye-patch in place.

"Wonderful," he muttered as he examined his reflection in the wardrobe's full length mirror, "I look like a prize prat." He could just imagine people thinking it funny to tell him the D&D convention or whatever was "next week," hah hah.

"Don't forget your pistol," Carrow said.

Timothy rolled his eye. "Of course. If I want to get arrested. It's _illegal_ for me to carry a gun in public like that…plus I'm going to a wedding reception. Why would I need to be armed?"

This seemed to puzzle Carrow. "But you wouldn't be. It's only a small pistol, hardly counts at all really, plus you're not objecting to the sword. I'm failing to see the difference."

Sometimes…Timothy closed his eye in exasperation. "I can claim the sword is ceremonial, but the pistol? No, really, just no." What sort of world had Carrow inhabited for a pistol to seem like a mere accessory? He knew it had been brutal, you just had to look at the man's power-armour to understand that…but still…

He turned, fully prepared to tell Carrow exactly what he thought about him and his awful dress-sense, only to spot Artemis trying to root around in his laundry basket. What was it with felines and grubby clothes?

"Drop that sock," he roared, " _naughty Artemis,_ leave the sock!"

.oOo.

"Are you sure there are any deer left?" Ron asked as he glanced round at the surrounding trees and shrubby growth, scratching idly at the camo-paint he'd liberally applied to his face. "I'd have thought Artemis would have nabbed them all by now."

"It's worth a check," Neville said as he transformed back from a bear, "there's something fairly fresh on that tree there. I think it's wee, might be a dog."

"Yuck," Ron muttered as he adjusted his recurve bow. Somehow Hermione had blagged the powerful weapons out of Carrow, specifically for their use this summer. It was certainly making things more interesting. Definitely superior to the spears and other badly maintained weapons that they had had to get by with at Hogwarts. Maybe, if Hermione did the talking, Carrow would loan them out to the DC for next year.

"Right," Hermione said to herself as she pulled her hand drawn map of the wood, "we're about here. Greg and the others have gone along this route…so if we go this way…"

Ron stared in the direction she'd pointed, it all looked the same to him, full of trees and low slung branches and stinging nettles. Occasionally they'd come across an animal track through the undergrowth. Most of them, according to Neville's bearish sense of smell, were made by local cats, foxes, the odd badger, not many deer though, and that was what they were really after. "We'll find more nettles," he suggested.

Hermione rolled her eyes as she slowly stood and slunk forward into the bushes. Grinning, Neville followed her.

Well, fine. Ron glared after them, as long as they eventually bagged a deer. This wasn't a patch on hunting in the Forbidden Forest, they always came back with something interesting there…

.oOo.

The Hummer came to a growling halt in the car park, and Timothy took a moment to compose himself for the nightmare ahead. Right now, fighting a Nundu with a pointy stick wearing nothing but his underpants was looking rather appealing.

"I don't know what you're worried about," Wulfric said cheerfully as he slipped his aviator glasses on, "it's only a wedding reception."

Timothy gave him his best imitation of one of Carrow's steel melting glares. "Oh, I don't know…" he snarled, "maybe the fact that I'm dressed like a complete and utter _prat_ , and I've brought a _man_ as my "plus one". That's just to begin with, you understand. I suppose Artemis destroying one of my favourite socks, only _one_ mind you, just counts as ordinary everyday annoyance."

Wulfric gave him a cheerful grin. "Honestly, Tim, I'm not your plus-one, I'm your bodyguard. I cleared it with Carrow and everything. The last time I left you alone, you nearly got yourself killed." He shot Timothy a look of serious concern.

"I don't need a bodyguard," Timothy ground his teeth in frustration as he wrenched the car door open, clambering down onto the wet gravel. "It's just a wedding reception; note the complete lack of marauding nundus and daemon hosts."

He slammed the door shut, looking around the car-park. Typically for a summer wedding, the day had begun with a torrential downpour. The sky, now a featureless and sullen grey from horizon to horizon, promised more of the same sometime very soon. It mirrored his mood rather nicely, Timothy thought, as he strode towards the venue (once a country house built somewhere around 1830, now a hotel), the overly cheerful werewolf trailing in his wake.

"It's only for invited guests, sir," the annoying member of staff in the foyer tried telling him, actually attempting to physically block his way. Timothy turned his best Carrow flattening glare on the slightly pudgy young man.

"I _am_ an invited guest," he hissed, brandishing his gold trimmed invitation in the shaking man's face, "and this is my plus-one." He gestured towards Wulfric who looked like he was having a nasty coughing fit. "Are we clear?" he snarled.

"Yes, sir," the youth squeaked diving behind his desk. Timothy ignored him as he strode through into the hall itself, gritting his teeth at the reception he was likely to receive.

He blinked in surprise. The room, which he was sure was normally extremely tasteful in a neutral hotel-y sort of way, was now bedecked with streamers and balloons in strident pink, cream and old gold. But it was mainly pink, a strange sticking plaster, fleshy sort of pink.

Even the floral displays on the scattering of cream covered tables were overwhelmingly fleshy pink. It was rather unsettling and bizarrely unnatural. He eyed the floral arch that loomed behind the bride and groom who were now eyeing him suspiciously. Should he be concerned? Were there malevolent forces at play seeping out into the environment he currently occupied?

He looked around again, trying not to appear too suspicious as he checked for any of the symbols or signs Carrow had explained at length were a sure indicator of foul unnatural forces at play. He couldn't see anything obvious…but still.

Wulfric poked him in the back. "You all right?" he asked in concern.

Timothy looked back at him a moment. "Maybe Carrow was right and I should have brought my Browning after all," he muttered.

Wulfric just shook his head in amused exasperation as he poked him forward.

"Timothy!"

Jerking round at the ear-splitting screech, Timothy was just in time to catch the human missile as Tiffany slammed into his side, heedless of her bridesmaid's dress which Timothy couldn't help but notice gave the poor girl the appearance of being eaten alive by some sort of pink flesh-eating sea creature. The effect was actually rather alarming.

"You're here!" she bounced happily. "Now I won't be bored." Grabbing his arm, she began to tow him away into the crowd of distant relatives and family friends whose names he could never quite remember, Wulfric strolling after them, whistling cheerfully.

"Erm…your dress looks nice?" he finally hazarded.

Tiffany gave him a sarcastic look over her shoulder.

"All right, maybe not; I take it you're being suitably bribed for the occasion" Timothy sighed.

"Oh yes," Tiffany grinned, "most satisfactory as Uncle Allesandor would say."

"It does look suspiciously like you're being consumed by a carnivorous deep-sea creature," he pointed out.

Tiffany sniggered as she dragged him round a push-chair full of fat screaming toddler. "It does, doesn't it? I'm not sure anyone likes them really. In fact some of the old bridesmaids are so traumatised…"

Timothy mentally adjusted his definition of old to include anyone over the age of eighteen.

"…by it they're hanging around the bar drinking wine like Mum does when Auntie Beryl visits at Christmas." She rolled her eyes expressively. "She didn't stay long last time cause Tyler _accidentally_ set her favourite coat on fire."

"Really?" Timothy raised an eyebrow unsurprised. If "Auntie Beryl" was anything like her boorish brother…

"Mum threw a bucket of water over it and screamed blue murder at Tyler, and Tyler bawled his eyes out and hid under the dining table and refused to come out, even when I tried bribing him with my bucket of jelly babies," Tiffany carried on cheerfully, "but Auntie Beryl left an entire day early, so it was actually quite a good Christmas really."

"Ah, well…" Timothy frowned, not quite sure what to say. "So, it turned out all right in the end then?"

"Yup," Tiffany said as she dragged him past some of the other younger bridesmaids.

" _Tiffany_ ," Trudi snapped, "I _told_ you not to wander off."

"Look, Mum," Tiffany grinned completely ignoring her Mum's glower, "I found Timothy!"

Timothy stiffened under Trudi's disapproving glare. "So you've turned up, have you," she sniffed, "you look like a right prize idiot…and so does your friend."

Which coming from Trudi Pratt, Timothy felt, was a bit rich, considering _her_ dress-sense. Take the fluorescent pink stretchy mini dress thing she had decided was appropriate for such an occasion; it even came with a matching little jacket. It really didn't help that her tan was darker than the dress, making it almost luminescent.

"Don't be horrible, Trudi," Mum sniffed disdainfully as she came over. Timothy looked at the thing perched on her carefully manicured hairstyle dubiously. Was that what they called a fascinator? It bore a striking resemblance to a very posh cat toy.

"Well, look at you," Mum sighed, as she adjusted the collar of his coat, "I see Allesandor got his hands on your wardrobe again. He does like things to be on the theatrical side, doesn't he?" She smiled up at him, giving his cheek an affectionate pat.

"Hi, Mum," Timothy muttered, as he gave her a peck on the cheek.

"And did you remember to send a donation to one of Steve and Kathy's favourite charities?"

"Well, yes, Mum," Timothy rolled his eye, "and I refrained from sending them flowers too, just as they asked on the invitation. I'm not a complete barbarian, you know."

"HEY, TIMMY!"

Timothy swivelled on the spot to find Matthew bearing down on him with a huge grin, sporting his immaculate No. 2 dress uniform. He braced himself as his older brother threw his arms around him. "Look, the Inquisition is here," Matthew practically yelled in his ear.

"Shut up Mattie," Timothy hissed as he tried to push his older brother away.

"Nobody expects the Inquisition," Wulfric chimed in gleefully.

"And you can shut up too," Timothy snarled as he tried to wrestle his brother off, so he could give Wulfric a much deserved glare.

"Hey, and Mr Soft Autumn himself as well," Matthew smirked gleefully.

Wulfric chuckled nervously as he shook Matthew's hand over Timothy's shoulder.

"You can let me go now," Timothy growled, beginning to lose his patience. Instead of obeying, much to Timothy's indignation, Matthew held him at arm's length. "What the _hell_ happened to you?" he asked in concern, taking in the eye patch and the increased facial scarring.

Timothy batted away an exploratory hand in annoyance. "I'll tell you about it later," he growled. "Shouldn't we sit down? I think we're beginning to make a scene."

"Ah, erm…whoops," Matthew grinned nervously as he looked around.

"Idiot," Timothy muttered.

.oOo.

Ignoring the midges, Ron slunk through the undergrowth trying to minimise the crunch of old dead leaves under his heavy boots. They'd actually found what looked like deer tracks, pairs of almond shaped marks in the mud of a narrow path that wound through the undergrowth towards the river and a large willow tree that hung over the bank; it looked like that might be a favoured drinking spot.

So they had spread out among the trees, Neville reverting to a bear as he tried to get a scent of their quarry.

A rustling among the trees up ahead caught his attention. Relaxing against a tree he waited, it seemed far too large to be a badger, not to mention wrong time of day…not right for a fox either. Could this be?

Slowly he pulled an arrow from his quiver and put it to his bowstring. Gently breathing in he pulled it back to his ear…just a bit more…there…he released the shot…

.oOo.

"Unca…Unca Tim," Shaun happily proclaimed from his high chair across the table, waving his plastic fork wildly. Somehow the little tyke had managed to find some chocolate and now most of it was plastered around his mouth and down the front of his page-boy uniform and even in his hair.

"Seriously, what is with that eye patch?"

Who had been daft enough to think that sitting him next to Melvin Pratt was in any way a good idea? Timothy stabbed his steak with slightly more force than was strictly necessary. Could he help that he was imagining that it was the man's scraggly wrinkled over-tanned neck?

"…not believing for two seconds that you've actually lost an eye," Melvin carried on with a snort of disbelief, "I mean, please. It's just a silly little affectation like the rest of your outfit. You do know those poncey New-Romantics went out years ago," he laughed completely oblivious to the glares he was receiving from Mattie and Mum. "And where the crap did you get a leather coat with gold pretty patterns? Got it specially made at a bondage place, eh? Looks like a custom job, expensive on a toilet cleaner's budget…"

"Mum, what's bondage?" Tiffany hissed loudly.

"It was a gift from my employer, and for the last time I am a secretary. I haven't worked as a cleaner for years, thank the Go…humph," Timothy cleared his throat, his face stiffening. "He is very particular about how I present myself in public since I often represent him in an official capacity."

Melvin gave him a funny look. "Seriously? What a load of old cobblers, I bet he's just some old perve…"

Timothy ground his teeth, wishing Melvin would spontaneously combust. Where was accidental magic when you needed it? Then he'd be able to claim no knowledge.

"Oh, and as for the eye…" he sneered at Melvin, reaching up for his eye patch, "well…it's as you see…"

Melvin's fork dropped onto his plate with a clatter as his face turned a funny putty colour underneath all the fake tan.

"Cool!" Tiffany loudly proclaimed.

.oOo.

The scream that tore through the wood was most definitely _not_ from a deer, in fact it sounded rather like…he sprinted forward through the undergrowth. Had he accidently shot a dog-walker? The trouble he'd be in if he had.

Crashing through a whippy stringy bush covered with funny white berries he skidded to a halt at the sight of Colin Creevey lying on his front, trousers around his ankles, hands clutching his backside from which protruded the arrow. A loo roll lay not far away from where it had rolled.

Oh no, he was so dead. Hermione was going to kill him and then Mum was going to resurrect him just she could kill him all over again and then…

Neville-the-Grizzly burst through the bushes stumbling to a halt, gaping in a very un-bear like way as he took in Colin's plight. The others arrived not long after.

"Oh dear," Greg said as he took in the scene, "someone needs to read up on identifying wildlife, I think."

"So, who needs glasses?" Millie asked as she examined Colin's injury. "Hmm, I think we're best to leave this alone. Sorry, Colin, but you need to see Healer Slaughter."

Ron winced as Colin whimpered. "I was only going to the toilet," the smaller boy sobbed, "I dropped my loo roll and everything."

"I think," Millie said, poking his injured buttock, "that your loo roll is the least of your worries at the moment."

Feeling guilty Ron picked the loo roll up, trying to brush the dead leaves and mud off as best he could. If only he was allowed to use his wand, he'd be able to fix the sorry object up no problem.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Greg suddenly burst out with a barely contained laugh.

"Wha?" Ron squawked, face flushing brilliant red, "I mean…yes. I'm…I am so sorry, Colin…I…just…"

"Look on the bright side, we get to practice improvising stretchers," Hermione pointed out.

.oOo.

At least the rain had eased off a little, Timothy thought miserably as he took a drag of his Black Russian, so something was going right today. Sure, he might had managed to get one over on Melvin Bloody Pratt, but he had a feeling Trudi was going to make him smart for it later,

The sooner he was away from this place and back to the relative sanity of the Lodge…well, that was proof positive he'd finally cracked. The Lodge sane? What a joke.

If it wasn't the archaeologists trying to dig holes in seemingly random places, then it was the English Heritage people ganging up with the archivists and causing trouble. Last week when they'd discovered Charlus Potter's correspondence with Andre Breton had been hellish. If only he hadn't had the bright idea that the Lodge could be a humanizing thing to make Carrow more palatable to the general public.

And Bernard had yet again got himself lost as he explored the underground complex that was still in the process of being built. What Carrow thought he needed it for was…actually, considering what he knew about the man, he really didn't want to consider what Carrow thought he was going to need a veritable underground city for.

Anyway, Bernard had got lost, yet again, this time complete with camping gear, tent, sleeping bag, stove, everything he would need for nearly a week's exploration. When he had eventually caught up with him, the man had been having an impromptu barbecue with some of the Dwarven excavators. Turned out Bernard was a keen amateur geologist, which had gone down really well with the Dwarves.

Plus there was the continuing saga of the (according to the archaeologists) Saxon village, but which according to the gardeners was their yard and collection of outbuildings, storage and offices, which they were determined to defend against hole-digging loonies at all costs. The ongoing negotiations were long winded and tedious as both parties nitpicked at each others' suggestions.

Just to put the tin lid on everything the archivist, a retired librarian, a meticulous and exacting sort of lady, had had to be let in on the existence of magic due to the nature of the records she was organising. That had not gone well- and then she'd got into a physical fight with one of the archaeology team who had accidentally misfiled some documents when doing some research about the Tudor part of the house. He hadn't realised it was possible to produce such awful bruises with just a rolled up newspaper.

A finger jabbed him hard in the cheek. Gasping for air, his heart pounding like an express train, Timothy whirled to find his big brother grinning at him.

"Damn it, Mattie, I nearly swallowed my cigarette," he complained.

Matthew shrugged, completely unrepentant. "Figured I'd found you out here. You know, Tiffany's rounded up some of the other kids so she can get them to re-enact some of your ah, adventures with various pilfered bits and pieces."

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Timothy dug out another cigarette; it had just been one of those days. "It's all a load of exaggerated rot. Felix has one sleep-over, and Annie and Caroline choose it as a golden opportunity to fill their heads with tall tales."

Matthew snorted with laughter. "I've seen you in action, remember," he bumped their shoulders together, "you've got nothing to ashamed of."

Timothy huffed in annoyance.

"Though I don't remember you ever telling me anything about riding a dragon into battle," Matthew continued.

"For Throne's sake," Timothy muttered as he rolled his eyes, ignoring Matthew's laughter.

"Fine," Timothy sighed, "enough about me, imaginary or not. How have you been? We…I… _he_ , put you in an extremely difficult situation."

Matthew stared at him silently. "That's, erm…putting it mildly," he said eventually. "We were exonerated of any wrong doing…but we can't talk about it. To anyone. At all. Even you. Had to sign contracts to that effect even. So of course that means none of us can explain to the other lads what happened…so they're understandably suspicious of us."

His shoulders slumping in defeat, Timothy sighed. "I am so sorry, I…if only I hadn't…"

"Heh, what's done is done," Matthew said, "so, erm," he shifted nervously, "while we were in limbo me and the lads put our heads together and errr, made this," he pulled a folded wedge of paper from his pocket and thrust it into Timothy's hands.

Curious, he flattened it out to find a roughly stapled together pamphlet, its photocopied pages wonkily stapled together. " _Zombie Combat 101_ ," Timothy read with a small frown.

"Yeah, after that little _incident_ we decided to put down as much as possible about tactics and such. What worked, what didn't, things to be mindful of," Matthew shrugged, "just in case we run into anything strange again. Had quite the fight over the title though." He gave Timothy a small grin.

"Good idea," Timothy nodded, "mind if I keep this? If I can think of anything to add I'll let you know, add it into my letters and that."

Matthew's grin broadened. "That'd be great…"

The distinctive shouting of Trudi on the warpath broke out behind them, as she began to berate her offspring. Timothy couldn't hear much, but words like _fire…dragon…not allowed_ filtered outside. His heart dropping, he grabbed his brother's arm, and dragged him down the gravel path and round the corner to where a bedraggled rhododendron stood.

"Like Merlin I'm getting involved in _that_ ," he muttered under his breath as he stuffed the pamphlet into his sash (damn thing had to be good for something).

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "So…why? Never thought _Trudi_ needed much help when it came to child-wrangling."

"They're both magical."

"Ah, right," Matthew laughed, "and then Mum dragged you into it since you're the nearest wizard." He paused almost nervously. "So…how's the big guy?"

Timothy gave the question some thought. "A bit irritable at the moment. He's recovering from being partly disembowelled…"

"What?" Matthew stared at him shock.

"According to him, he's fine, but I've noticed his scars are still giving him some discomfort. I suspect the medical people from where he's from used to keep patients like him unconscious until they were fully healed," Timothy said, "just to keep the whining, sulking and generally immature behaviour to an absolute minimum…but he saved my life when he did it, threw himself between me and _it_. I…I'd already been injured…this daemon host…"

"Like what we fought?" Matthew asked with increasing concern.

"Not quite. We were, or _he_ was on the trail of a wanted magical criminal, but then it turned out this individual had resources that we were unaware of. Very dangerous resources that I doubt he even understood himself. It changed him and warped him until…literally out of nowhere, no warning, nothing…and went for me, took my eye out…" He shuddered at the memory. "And then…it's still really hard to talk about actually. The nightmares really aren't helping either. Does that make me a wimp?"

He jumped as Matthew slung an arm round his shoulders, pulling him close. "Seriously? No. But you might want to try talking to someone about it."

"Like a doctor? A psychiatrist?"

"Maybe," Matthew said slowly, "priests can be good too." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "So anyway, we got a new guy. Turns out he's a wizard, so he's now our unofficial battle-mage. Claims his speciality is Herbology, so we should be okay if we ever encounter any flesh-eating plants."

"A wizard," Timothy interrupted, "a muggleborn?"

"Probably," Matthew nodded, "he's being tight-lipped about it at the moment, but I've told him he's got to mug up about anything combat and creature related."

"Anybody I know?" Timothy asked.

"Naw. Doubt it. He's a bit younger than you…and a Hufflepuff too, I think." Matthew shook his head. "Seemed to be a bit reluctant about the whole battle-mage thing too, but then we explained about zombies to him as best we could, and he…"

"There you are!" Trudi marched round the corner in all her fluorescent pink glory, her heels scrunching in the gravel. "I've been bloody looking for you everywhere, _Timothy_. Are you going to come and fix this sodding mess up or what? Since your boyfriend isn't up to the task."

"Wulfric is _not_ my boyfriend," Timothy snapped, "he's acting as my body guard, assistant…"

"Whatever," Trudi rolled her eyes dismissively.

A guilty looking Tiffany leaned around her mother. "Tim, I err…I tried making the trim on one of the tables sparkle…" she scuffed a pink patent shoe in the gravel guiltily, "and erm…it went wrong."

Timothy growled to himself, his heart sinking at the possible size of the mess he was now facing. Tiffany stared up at him beseechingly. "I'm really, really sorry," she said, almost in tears.

"Looks like a job for the Inquisition," Matthew elbowed him in the ribs as they followed Trudi back inside.

"Shut up, Mattie," Timothy muttered back.

oOo

"I take it the wedding reception proceeded in an orderly fashion."

Timothy looked up startled to find himself almost nose to chest with Carrow's latest attempt at a casual robe. It looked more like the sort of garment a High Priest of very dark gods would wear on his day off, the Purgatus of St Seraphim not helping matters as it slipped past his gaze, its runes glinting in the weak sunshine that poured in through the front doors of the Lodge.

"It was acceptable," Timothy conceded. Carrow smirked down at him. Giving the large man a dubious look, he tried to step round him only to find his path still blocked by a smirking Carrow.

"What?" Timothy snapped in exasperation. Today had been far too long and far too full of really annoying people. Right now, what he longed for was a sit down preferably with a nice big mug of tea.

"I have never been to a wedding reception," Carrow said, his head slightly tilted, "it is not something someone such as I myself generally receives invitations to, what with my social standing being as it is. I have always wondered, though…"

"I highly doubt you had the time for such things before," Timothy began.

"Such a pity I wasn't invited," Carrow carried on, "after all, I am practically a member of your family…"

Timothy choked back a cough. Obviously the Lump wasn't going to let this one go, so to distract the man, he pulled the zombie pamphlet from his sash. "Here, have a look at this."

Carrow looked down at the cobbled together thing, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Erm, sirs?"

Weasley had such excellent timing, Timothy thought, seeing a wonderful avenue of escape.

"Ah, Percival," Carrow turned still with that creepy little smile, "is young Colin more comfortable now?"

"What?" Timothy snarled, heart dropping. What had gone on while he'd been away?

Percy winced, and edged away slightly. "Yes, ah, Healer Slaughter managed to successfully remove the arrow from Mr Creevey's behind…ah…the only problem is, erm, Mrs Creevey. Of course we had to inform her that her son had been injured…"

"What's gone on?" Timothy stalked forward, ignoring Percy's quivering. "You let them have weapons, didn't you?" He turned on Carrow. "Unsupervised! _Didn't you_?"

"Only recurve bows," Carrow shrugged, a little crease of a frown appearing between his brows as he tried to work out why his apprentice was so upset. "I didn't allow them to take the Cadia's out hunting, because, as you implied this morning, their presence would cause difficulties with the local Arbites."

Timothy struggled to get his temper back under control; obviously the Giant Lump felt he'd been exceedingly responsible and thoughtful while completely forgetting that these were _children_ he was dealing with. "Oh, and as if the local Constabulary are going to be thrilled about a bunch of teenagers wandering the local woods with recurve bows," he snarled.

"At their age," Carrow said, "I was an Aspirant of the Charnel Guard, had fought in a major campaign, and had already undergone the beginnings of my transformation to Astartes."

It was as if ice had slid down Timothy's spine.

"Er, Sirs," Percy desperately interrupted, "Mrs Creevy is coming here to retrieve her son, _in person_ …erm, I just thought you should know."

"You're dealing with her," Timothy snapped at Carrow as he strode up the stairs, "you were stupid enough to give them the bows, so you get to clean up the mess."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The Potter family home exuded old money in a way that people like the Malfoys could only hope to aspire to, Barty Crouch Senior mused. Only a family that old and that wealthy would have such shabby though expensive wallpaper, or have a carpet that threadbare in such a public room. Of course, the carpet was most likely a real Persian hand-knotted woollen affair that would cost a small fortune to replace, but it still didn't change the fact that it had a bald patch near one end.

There was also the chair he was sitting in, an oak affair, the arms worn to a glass-like sheen with age. Also of wonderful quality he was sure, but of such an old design that it had probably last been fashionable sometime around 1342. He suspected it was some of the original furniture the multitudinous Potters had brought with them when they had first moved to this area, seeking to improve their fortunes.

Now there was only one left, sitting across the low table from him. A hulking intimidating figure with predatory calculating eyes and the personality of a hungry shark. As for his dress sense…where _did_ he get his robes? He stared at the black brocade horrors Carrow was wearing today, with their row of gilded skull themed buttons down the front. It wasn't _Twilfits & Tattings,_ that was for certain. He shook his head slightly trying to dislodge the unpleasant fuzzy feeling that seemed to be dogging him constantly at the moment.

Mr Crouch wasn't entirely clear why the Senior Under-Secretary had invited him to lunch, and he was definitely beginning to regret that glass of whisky he'd had first thing and the one at elevenses too. Wasn't the man supposed to be severely injured? But he appeared to be in reasonable health. This was all definitely a cause for concern, because if you didn't have all the facts, and Carrow was involved…

A shiver went down his spine as a lumpen servant entered the room, pushing a trolley laden with plates of sandwiches, cakes and tea-making paraphernalia…and of course, that led to the problem of what exactly did Carrow know? The man seemed to have spies and agents everywhere, all feeding him information and twisting the Ministry to his every whim and desire.

It was very clear, Carrow was highly dangerous, even now when he appeared to be on the defensive, with his young protégé taking his place for the time being. He winced at the memory of a particularly painful meeting he'd had with Faulks just a few days previously.

As the servant began to lay plates out on the table, it made soft groans and hisses, and Mr Crouch leaned away from it in revulsion. What sort of creatures did Carrow employ in his household? Some sort of illegal hybrid? If so, he'd be having words with the relevant Ministerial department.

He winced as the sleeve of its robe drew back, revealing brass mechanical parts, rods and cogs moving and shifting with the thing's motion, all of it embedded in pale pasty flesh that looked as if it had been dead for a while but carefully preserved, something black sliding slowly through its veins.

Some sort of flesh automaton then. His gut chilled at the realisation. He'd heard rumours about some of the last Potter's more unsavoury hobbies, having always dismissed them as political slander. It seemed Mr Carrow was a practitioner of some obscure branch of Necromancy, after all…though wasn't that contacting the spirits of the dead? Maybe Voodoo, they had zombie servants, didn't they?

He watched in revulsion as the hood of the robe slipped to reveal the pale flesh of the thing's face, slack-jawed and an unattractive grey, the eyes replaced with rune engraved crystal orbs that flickered and glowed, as the flesh golem jerked and moaned and sighed as it went about its task. Curious how familiar those freckles were…and that nose…and the chin…he dismissed the thought; he'd got enough on his plate currently without adding to it, by considering the Ministry's resident head-case's disgusting hobbies. Hopefully, the Aurors would catch up with him at some point.

"Would you like milk in your tea?" Carrow's booming voice asked.

Crouch's head snapped round to find Carrow smiling at him, displaying far too many white even teeth, his green eyes glinting icily.

"I err, yes…yes please," he said nervously.

"And sugar?" Carrow boomed.

"Two…two please," Crouch whispered, accepting the delicate bone china cup and saucer. Disturbingly (and typically) it appeared to be part of a mourning set, what with the tasteful purple, black and gold design of skulls and laurel wreaths. It felt like some sort of omen.

"Please help yourself to sandwiches," Carrow offered gesturing to the triangles of pale bread laid out in front of them. Crouch considered for a moment; did he really want to consume something that had been so recently near something so obviously half dead? It was a matter of hygiene after all. Under the heavy scrutiny of Carrow, he took a couple and placed them delicately on his plate. If he died of food poisoning, at least he'd be free of Carrow and all his other troubles.

This was all rather civilised really, in a mad twisted sort of way. The tea was excellent quality, and the potentially dangerous sandwiches…he took a bite of one; ham and cucumber with a dab of mustard. Not bad at all.

"And now to business," Carrow smiled toothily at him. Crouch's appetite rapidly retreated as he put down the rest of the sandwich.

"Ah yes," Crouch inwardly winced, shifting uncomfortably on his chair, "Haiti. Terrible business, I'm sure, but not really anything to do with us. I'm sure the magical authorities there are perfectly capable of apprehending Mr McGuire, and dealing with him without any intervention from us."

"Except Mr McGuire is also guilty of crimes in this country too, specifically that series of unpleasant incidents in the Knockturn area over the last couple of years," Carrow pointed out.

Crouch did his best to resist grinding his teeth. "I'm not sure…" he began but Carrow cut him off.

"Not to mention two possible home invasions, and I'd like a closer look at that _pet_ of his," Carrow carried on. "I'm sure we'd have an answer to the second family's missing son."

"A matter for the muggle authorities, I'm sure," Crouch attempted to counter.

"A matter for all of us," Carrow said with bone chilling finality.

Crouch glared at him; why couldn't this annoying man just leave things well alone? The Ministry was a fine institution and had been doing its job for centuries in exactly the same way with little to no difficulty until Carrow had come along and blundered through things like a rabid troll, stepping on people's toes, upsetting proverbial apple-carts and poking his nose into business he damn well shouldn't. The man just didn't seem to know his place, but what would you expect from an uppity half-blood?

His glare deepened as Carrow smirked back, delicately nibbling on a sandwich which looked ridiculously small in his huge fingers. The arrogant, self-absorbed…Crouch fumed silently, shaking with nerves. What he would give for a little whisky right now. Why had he been stupid enough to agree to this? The small quantity of food he'd managed to ingest sat heavy on his stomach like a block of granite.

"Yes, a matter for all of us," Carrow repeated thoughtfully, "which is why I wished to speak with you."

Crouch felt his stomach fall even further. If it went any further it would end up in Carrow's wine cellars.

"As you well know," Carrow smiled smugly, "I often liaise with Madam Bones on problems she needs a specialist's touch for, which means I often operate outside this country, in order to purge Holy Terra of the foul taint of corruption that plagues Humanity. This is where _you_ come in, Mr Crouch."

 _Foul taint? Holy Terra? What?_ Crouch stared at the giant lunatic in bewilderment.

Carrow leaned forward, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Sometimes I need someone in a position to smooth things out for me legally, reach out to your equivalents elsewhere and ease the way for treaties and other agreements as I require…including Mr McGuire's imminent retrieval."

"You expect me to be your personal lackey," Crouch snarled, rising sharply to his feet. But Carrow was unperturbed, sitting back in his chair, smirking lazily. Crouch winced and tensed as the large man snapped out something in garbled Latin. Was he casting some sort of spell? He looked round nervously at the sighing and hissing of the disgusting flesh golem, only to come face to face with it as it sightlessly began to carry out Carrow's instructions, clearing away the plates of savoury foods.

It did look horribly familiar; from this angle, it looked just like…Crouch yelped and jerked in his chair. This was his _son_ , his actual son, his little boy turned into a play-thing by a monstrous _evil_ man…

Hands shaking almost uncontrollably, Crouch settled back in his chair, watching as the thing that used to be his son laid out plates of cakes before retreating to its place beside the door. To Crouch's utter revulsion, the hideous creation appeared to be wearing a bib with a tray to catch the drool that ran continuously down its…his chin.

Shaken to his core, he turned to glare at the perpetrator of this foul deed, only to find Carrow leaning back in his chair, a smirk of utter satisfaction on his face, his green eyes cold and calculating.

"Would you like a cake?" Carrow almost grinned as he gestured towards the plates of fondant fancies, the skull buttons of his robes grinning along with him. Crouch slumped in his chair, utterly depressed and defeated. Oh, _how_ he wished for a bottle of whisky right now.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The Chapel was dark as he slipped round the door, his entrance causing a rustle of movement and whispers among the multitude of wall-paintings as they noted his presence. The God-Emperor of Mankind crept carefully past the skull racks, ignoring their occupants' blank eyed stares. He paused in front of the main altar, the heroic depiction of himself slaying a daemon towering up behind it, the gold of his armour glinting in the dim light of a row of votive candles.

It was, in his opinion, the most annoying part of this space, dedicated to an entirely spurious worship of himself. Somehow Allesandor had managed to get the blasted thing to look just enough like him that it was causing problems, awkward questions, and strange stares. He'd managed to deflect the majority of them so far, but it was beginning to become extremely wearing.

He glared up at the representation of himself from a dark and desperate future that he was no longer certain of. For so long he had been so clear of the path that he trod, of how things would happen, play out, ending in a gradual darkening as Humanity spread across the galaxy, fighting against overwhelming odds. But then Allesandor Carrow had made his appearance and, like throwing a brick at a window, he had disrupted _everything_. Things were slowly beginning to settle, but to his resigned horror, Allesandor was instrumental to a whole host of important events in the near future…actually more like the next few centuries at the very minimum. All he could do was keep close to the annoying lump and try and keep the chaos to a minimum. At least he wasn't going to be bored for the foreseeable future.

Now to the pressing matter of his favourite mug. _Darling_ little Allesandor had taken to running off with it and placing it in the Chapel for veneration and worship, as a holy object. He rolled his eyes in exasperation; at least it wasn't on the main altar this time.

The God-Emperor narrowed his eyes as he searched for any possible niches or other hiding places among the heavy decoration. Nothing obvious…but what about that little side chapel tucked in beside that particularly lurid skull rack? The God-Emperor sidled over, taking in its comparatively plain appearance. Just white-wash on the walls? Goodness, Allesandor must be slipping. Even the altar was undecorated, just a plain white linen cloth and fresh flowers among the candles and incense burner that stood in front of a double portrait. The God-Emperor paused a moment; was it him or did the man in the picture look uncommonly like Allesandor, if Allesandor wore glasses? A slow grin broke over his face. Were these Allesandor's parents?

He shuffled closer, examining the portrait with keen interest. Yes, that had to be it; Allesandor had made a shrine to venerate the memory of his parents. Sometimes it was too easy to just see Allesandor as a highly intelligent thug, but then he'd discover something like this about the annoying man. It was rather charming, almost sweet really.

Ah, there, next to the vase of flowers, his mug! He reached over, scooping it up.

"Oh! Hello," said the red-haired lady, apparently Allesandor's mother given the vivid green of her eyes, "are you a friend of my son's?"

The God-Emperor gave this some thought. "I suppose I am…in a way; enough to try and keep him out of trouble. We work together mainly." He gave her a smile.

"Really? I'm Lily by the way," the red-head smiled up at him, "I've seen you coming and going. Is the, err…I'm not sure how to ask this, but…" her eyes flicked towards the main altar, "you look remarkably like the St. George statue…"

"Ah, heh heh," the God-Emperor chuckled nervously as he cradled his favourite mug in both hands, "some sort of coincidence, I'm sure." He backed away nervously. Blasted statue.

"Please don't go," Lily sighed, a note of desperation seeping into her voice, "we hardly get any visitors…I mean ones capable of talking to us, anyway." She grimaced.

The God-Emperor sighed in understanding. Allesandor's growing collection of bone golems and other assorted flesh puppets could be rather alarming on first acquaintance, and second acquaintance, and third…and Allesandor couldn't seem to be persuaded that there was any sort of problem with them, morally or legally.

"So…ah…what were you here for?" Lily asked tentatively.

"Oh, I was just retrieving my mug," the God-Emperor explained, showing it to her.

"Star Trek," Lily sighed happily as she leaned forward in the picture to get a better look. Beside her, James grumbled slightly in his sleep as he shifted and stirred. "I remember watching that when it was first on the television…just before I started Hogwarts, actually. It was so exciting and new, and Spock…ooh," she smiled, blissfully happy at the distant memory, "Mum and me used to sit on the sofa together to watch it, and there were the arguments afterwards about whether Spock or Kirk was the dishiest."

James shook his head in disgust as he yawned widely and stretched. "Not romance novels _again_ ," he muttered darkly. Lily ignored him.

"You must have seen it when it when it first came out over here," the God-Emperor mused.

"Probably," Lily nodded slowly, "this was, erm…maybe 1969. Petty, my sister, never got involved, as she considered it all far beneath her." Lily sighed sadly, leaning into James, who put his arm around her comfortingly.

"That's sad," the God-Emperor said, "did you ever get to go to a sci-fi convention or anything like that?"

Lily and James looked at one another in puzzlement. "I'm not even sure what that is," Lily said, looking slightly worried.

The God-Emperor beamed happily as he began to explain. "…and I go to at least one a year, preferably more if I can...and if I can, I like to join in the cosplay, generally in Star Trek uniform like the original series, but sometimes I go as an orc, because who can resist Dungeons and Dragons?" He shrugged. "But one year I went as He-man. It was so hard finding a decent blonde wig."

Lily nodded seriously, James standing beside her with an increasingly incredulous expression. "And people actually pay good money to go to these…convention thingies…and dress up as…as imaginary creatures and people and things? I knew muggles were weird but still…"

"James, be nice," Lily jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.

"And one time," the God-Emperor carried on, really warming to his topic now, "I took this mug with me and…and Leonard Nimoy _touched it_."

"Oh, wow!" Lily breathed, completely oblivious to James's disgusted look


	2. Chapter 2

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

 _I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

Author's note

No long author's note this time. One of my work-mates was a little bit too generous when she shared her germs and so I'm currently dealing with a nasty head cold. I'm about the fourth person to catch this thing; there is such a thing as over sharing, _Susan_.

Chapter 2

Now he knew what he was looking for it was almost impossible to avoid, rather like suddenly discovering the colour blue. Timothy propped himself up against the wall momentarily, mindful of all the odd paraphernalia, junk and much doodled white boards that cluttered the corridor that led up to the reserve labs where Professor Schmidt had set up home.

The psychic presence of the man was impossible to miss, like wading through blinding sunlight that was as thick as treacle. Timothy shook himself as he mentally steeled himself. Walking around where someone had carried on some heavily involved calculation onto the floor, he slowly approached the plain grey fire doors.

Someone had taped a homemade sign to them, a witch on a broomstick complete with disapproving cat. _Mumbo Jumbo in Progress!_ It announced. Seriously? Timothy shook his head with a sigh, running nervous fingers through his hair. Blasted stuff needed cutting again, but he never quite seemed to have enough time.

Looking back, he saw the same individual who'd decided to draw on the floor had also partially filled the ceiling. The sooner they had that new mainframe computer they were begging for, the better.

Trying to hide his nerves, he knocked sharply on the door. The cheerful whistling on the other side stopped. "Come in," Professor Schmidt boomed.

Sliding around the door, Timothy almost fainted as the man's psychic presence went from almost unbearable to intolerable. He swayed as his vision greyed around the edges, his eye swimming as he desperately tried to stay conscious.

Large hands guided him to a chair. "I see Xander has been teaching you things he probably shouldn't." Professor Schmidt's voice sounded as if it were coming through a long tunnel, distant and muddled and extremely exasperated. "Such a sink-or-swim attitude to everything."

Definitely sink, Timothy thought his mind sluggish and glacial under the psychic assault of this impossible being's presence.

"Here, if you just close your eye…like that…yes."

Gasping for air, Timothy blinked as the world snapped back into focus. The ceiling tiles and fluorescent tube lighting were blessedly reassuring in their utter dullness and he breathed a huge sigh of relief. No face tentacles then.

"Okay?" Professor Schmidt asked. Timothy tilted his head to find the huge man looking down at him with concern, black curls hanging messily around his hawkishly handsome face, the infamous pencil wand tucked behind his ear.

"I'm…I'm fine," Timothy croaked, trying to nod his head but sinking back into the chair with a groan when the motion set off a new wave of nausea.

"Right," Professor Schmidt sighed, as he handed a puzzled Timothy a bunch of tissues. "For your nose bleed," he explained.

Blinking in puzzlement, Timothy dabbed at his upper lip, only to find the tissue coming away a brilliant scarlet. Oh Throne! He thought.

Professor Schmidt…the God-Emperor of Mankind gave him a slightly pained look as he made a cup of coffee. "Here, this should help you feel better," he said as he handed it over, "I've got some biscuits around here somewhere."

"Honestly, I'm fine," Timothy protested sounding rather muffled through the tissues.

Professor Schmidt ignored him as he rifled through a cupboard and then a drawer. "Do you want ginger nuts or jammie dodgers?" he asked turning round, holding the packets up for Timothy's assessment, "and honestly, Tim, call me Jon."

Timothy couldn't even begin to imagine calling such an incredible indescribable being by such an informal name. It just didn't feel right.

"Anyway," Jon carried on, looking slightly fed-up, "you wanted to ask me about something?" He planted a plate of biscuits on Timothy's lap.

"Erm, yes…Cedric Diggory. He was supposed to start work in our Ministerial Department over a month ago, but he disappeared," Timothy said, distracted as he decided what to tackle first. Scalding hot coffee, plate of biscuits or the heavily blood stained tissues. He couldn't see a bin anywhere, and he daren't move in case he spilled or dropped something. Effectively pinned by biscuits, he though with an exasperated sigh.

"Didn't Xander cover his tracks?" Jon asked, almost amused, as he toed the wastepaper basket towards him.

"Of course he did," Timothy said as he sipped the coffee. Hot, wet and caffeinated, just what he needed he thought as he relaxed. "The only reason I went digging was I knew Mr Diggory was supposed to start work with us and then he didn't appear, and no one seemed to know anything, including his very worried parents. So I went looking for him. All I've been able to discover is that Mr Carrow diverted him to the R&D Department, specifically the "Garage", which apparently means you."

Jon considered him carefully for a moment.

"Carrow's up to something isn't he?" Timothy asked with an exasperated sigh closing his one remaining eye.

"Well…I suppose…"

"And he's pulled you into his latest ridiculous scheme. Hasn't he?" Timothy glared. "I thought you were more sensible than that."

Jon actually looked embarrassed for a moment scratching the back of his neck. "In a way," he admitted, his gaze turning alien and remote, "except that this will set in motion a whole range of events in the future that…" The large man shook himself, a grin spreading across his face. "Do you want to see them?"

"Them?" Timothy asked with a sinking feeling. He was definitely not going to like this.

"Biscuits first, though," Jon grinned at him.

.oOo.

The new lab Jon had taken him to appeared to be deep within the under-workings Carrow had ordered constructed several years previously. A monumental task that was still apparently ongoing. Timothy suspected sometimes that Carrow was building an underground city. Why? He could only begin to guess at the megalomania and overwhelming paranoia that would lead someone to see such a thing as being an absolute necessity.

Now, beneath the stone vaulting of this space's ceiling sat two rows of almost bus sized machinery, humming and clicking to themselves, pipes and cables snaking away in an incomprehensible cat's cradle. So where was Mr Diggory? Was he working here? It seemed rather improbable since the only staff appeared in fact to be golems of some type, though a lot sleeker and neater than the filigreed bone-yard monstrosities Carrow so loved to make.

"So where…" Timothy asked, but Jon was busily flicking through the contents of a clipboard.

"Ah," he smiled triumphantly, "I do believe…yep, CD-3541893, this is the one." He led the way down the row stooping in front of one of the machines. "Yes, this is it," he smiled down at Timothy, "this is where he is."

Timothy looked up at the machine, its faceless metal expanse unbroken and forbidding, a couple of green lights winking away in the partial gloom as cables and pipes climbed up from its top disappearing away to who knew where. "I don't understand," he turned back to Jon. "Is he being _experimented_ on or something?" he asked suspiciously not sure he was liking where this was going.

"In a way," Jon sighed. "After his, err, illness…accident…Xander came to me begging me to re-start…or start even, the Astartes program, and I could see his point, the necessity of it. So I agreed."

Timothy looked at him utterly horrified. "Astartes…Carrow is Astartes," he said slowly, "which means," he turned to stare at the machines, apparently giant incubators, cold sweat trickling down his spine, "that this is a _nursery_ for…"

"Yep. Baby Carrows," Jon grinned, almost laughing at Timothy's appalled expression. "Well no," he sighed, "I'd have to be utterly mental to clone Xander, however lovable he is. No, I've studied Xander's biology, with his permission of course, and back-engineered the process. There were a few hiccups along the way, and I've made some tweaks here and there just to improve the process. But rest assured, these likely lads will be very much their own people."

Turning slowly on the spot Timothy counted the machines, twenty all told. So twenty possible bio-engineered super soldiers. Nearly an army in its own right if they were all as capable as Carrow. "Why," he asked slowly, "would we need nearly two dozen super-soldiers?"

Jon considered him for a moment, his head slightly tilted, his gaze distant. "It won't be twenty. Not this first time, at any rate. I'm still refining the process to reduce adverse reactions and the like." He patted the nearest machine, "Thanks to Xander just existing right now, the future is going get a lot more _exciting_ a lot more quickly…we're going to need them," he said firmly.

"By exciting, I take it you mean hair-raisingly dangerous," Timothy sighed.

Jon shrugged with a grin. "Maybe, maybe not. There's also this," he said after a moment. "Have you ever considered just how soul crushingly lonely Carrow is?"

. .oOo.

Professor McGonagall looked around carefully at the painfully Muggle street she had just made a sudden appearance on. Fortunately, nobody seemed to be about, nor was there any suspicious twitching of lace curtains. Not that such behaviour would occur in such an obviously affluent area, probably. She gave the nearest detached Victorian villa with its carefully groomed front garden a suspicious glare.

Now to find 112 Wisteria Way. In most muggle areas that she had visited, the house numbers would zig-zag back and forth across the street, even on one side, odd on the other. But this particular road, for some unfathomable reason was numbered consecutively, number 26 sitting next door to number 27, while across the road were numbers 298 and 299. It appeared she was in for something of a walk.

Shaking her head at the contrariness of muggles, Professor McGonagall set off, her sensible tweed skirt swishing around her calves, her practical brogues clip-clopping smartly on the pavement.

Number 112 Wisteria Way turned out to be a mock Tudor affair with a front garden full of yellow and salmon pink roses, a large and extraordinarily ugly muggle vehicle occupying the front drive. Why the conveyance had shiny silver bars attached to its front was beyond her; was it to drive some sort of creature before it? All very peculiar.

Walking up the steps to the front door, she pressed the doorbell, only to glare at it when it proceeded to play a jaunty little tune. How terribly vulgar.

A thundering of steps and a clatter proceeded the wrenching open of the front door, and Professor McGonagall found herself looking down at a possible future student.

"Is this the Pratt…"

"Are you the teacher from Hogwarts?" the girl butted in rather rudely, her dark eyes snapping with excitement as she practically vibrated on the spot.

"I am indeed Professor McGonagall," Minerva said primly.

The girl squealed like a demented kettle, grabbing her wrist and yanking her into the house, much to Minerva's shock.

"MUUUUUM!" the small banshee bellowed as she dragged her along. "The Hogwarts teacher is here!"

"TIFFANY! How many times have I told you not to shout in the house!" an older female voice bellowed from the depths of the house. But the girl, Tiffany, definitely a future student if her parents were amenable, seemed to pay her mother no heed as she pattered through into what appeared to be a living room, given the quantity of chintzy furniture and knick-knacks.

Minerva blinked in quickly hidden surprise as a very blonde woman with shockingly orange skin and terrifying eyelashes like demented spiders appeared from around the corner wearing…Minerva blinked in surprise again. Was the woman in her underwear? She'd seen some very curious muggle attire in her time as she visited prospective muggle-born students, but still…

"Oh, hello," the woman minced forward in strappy pink sandals, extending her hand in greeting, "I'm Trudi, Tiffany's mum. She's been so excited the last couple of weeks, absolutely desperate for her Hogwarts letter she's been."

Minerva gave Trudi's pink taloned hand a dubious look before shaking it. "I am Professor McGonagall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your daughter Tiffany is eligible to attend in September, due to her special magical abilities. I am sure you have many questions," she said as she pulled out the parchment letter from her handbag and presented it to Tiffany, who bounced up and down with excitement, the heels of her funny muggle shoes flashing obnoxiously.

"I will endeavour to answer as many as I possibly can," Minerva finished, the beginnings of a migraine throbbing just above her right eye. She was so glad she'd thought to pack a headache remedy this morning.

"It's my letter, it's my letter," Tiffany squealed in excitement as she raced off, "Tyler! I've got my letter!"

Trudi shook her head in exasperation, hands on her hips. "Would you like a cup of tea, darling?"

"Yes, please." Minerva sighed inwardly. This looked like it was going to be one of the more difficult visitations.

"So I've been meaning to ask," Trudi called through from the kitchen, "does conjured food have calories?

What on Earth was a calorie? Minerva frowned in puzzlement. Was it some curious muggle edible she had hitherto been unaware of? Trudi minced back in with a tray of mugs and a plate of biscuits. "Just curious, you understand," she said as she perched on the edge of the chintzy sofa, handing a mug of tea over. Minerva couldn't help but notice that the object was decorated with very pink and painful looking high heeled shoes; her host's mug meanwhile was covered with teddy bears of all things. Come to think of it, there were rather a lot of teddy bears about the place, from ornaments to cushions. There were even a couple of stuffed bears sitting on the sofa itself, one of which had a large pink bow around its neck. It looked rather indignant about it.

"I was just thinking," Trudi carried on, "I'm on a diet, but if conjured chocolates have no calories then I could literally have my cake and eat it," she smiled triumphantly as her offspring clattered nosily back into the room.

"MUUUUUM," Tiffany's smaller male sibling roared, "I WANT MY HOGWARTS LETTER TOOOO!"

"Can it, Tyler!" Trudi shouted, "you'll get it when you're eleven!"

"I'm taking it," Minerva sighed, "you are well aware of the existence of magic and the magical world."

"Yeah," Trudi said as she considered the biscuits for a moment, "it runs through my mum's family. I must be the only mum on the street who has to tell her kids off for changing the colour of the carpet all the time." With a thoughtful frown, she scooped up a blue iced ring and bit a chunk out of it.

Minerva took an uneasy sip of her tea. "Have you…been to any of the magical shopping areas at all?"

"I haven't," Trudi said around her biscuit, "but my cousin, he's a wizard, has taken the kids around Diagon Alley and that more than once. If I hear one more thing about pet owls…" She rolled her eyes.

"I've learnt a little bit of magic already," Tiffany exclaimed, her voice full of excitement as she thumped a book full of impromptu bookmarks down on the coffee-table. Rifling through it, she pulled out a sheet of paper with a crude but painstakingly drawn runic array. Simple third year material to be sure, constructed from three interlinked symbols.

Minerva eyed it warily; was this young lady about to attempt what she thought…oh yes, she really was going to try and activate it without a wand. Should she intervene? But the likelihood of the young lady actually succeeding were rather slim.

"My cousin's been teaching her the odd thing," Trudi explained, "the culture and stuff…and he also gave her that book. Gives her little lessons every so often. At least it means she's not doing weird things to the sodding furniture anymore."

"Indeed," Minerva said with pursed lips, not sure that she approved of this mystery cousin.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Tiffany's cheek as she scrunched up her face in concentration, Tyler watching her every move intently. The runic array stuttered for a moment before fluttering into life, the muggle paper warping and twisting oddly around the glowing magic as if it were in pain.

Minerva's eyebrows shot into her hairline; to be sure, she'd seen better, and the light the impromptu lamp cast was rather murky, but for the work of an untrained child, it was actually quite remarkable.

Tyler scooped up the glowing scrunched paper and ran off waving it triumphantly over his head. "Tyler! Give it back!" Tiffany yelled as she set off in hot pursuit.

"Keep that thing in the house," Trudi screamed after them, "and stay away from your Dad's computer!"

"Kids!" she snorted turning to Minerva. "Who'd have them, eh?"

Minerva gave her a strained smile.

The jaunty tune of the doorbell rang out over the sound of distant running feet and yelling, and Trudi pulled herself to her feet. "That'd better be my cousin. He's got a kid same age as Tiffany; well, not _his_ precisely, but he looks after him a lot, so we figured we could do the school shopping together."

"So err, you're accepting the place for your daughter, then?" Minerva asked, feeling quite discombobulated.

"Well, of course," Trudi shouted back, "if I can get her trained up to turn things the actual colours she wants, then it'll make redecorating so much simpler."

Somehow, Minerva thought, as she watched the other woman disappear from the room, Mrs Pratt was missing the point by a mile.

"Tim," Trudi's voice drifted in from the hall, "your timing's great, for once. She's upstairs, Felix."

A vaguely familiar voice murmured something indistinct, obscured as it was by the thundering of a third set of childish feet up the stairs, soon followed a shriek of "Felix!" from Tiffany somewhere overhead.

"…fraid we would miss you," the mystery male said as he came towards the living room.

"Not at all," Trudi said, obviously not _that_ thrilled with her visitor, "I was about to give you a call, actually, see where you were. Cup of tea?" she snapped over her shoulder, as she minced in.

"No, thanks. I'm sure you're eager to get going."

Minerva looked up curiously at the young man as he entered the room, blinked in surprise, blinked again and stared. There, in all his finery, stood the Acting Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, looking even more grim and haggard than the last time she'd seen him, the mutilated remains of his right eye-socket now hidden behind a black velvet eye-patch.

What was such an august person of the Ministry doing here in this terribly _muggle_ neighbourhood? But of course… _cousins_ …wasn't he a muggleborn? How incredibly curious. She wasn't absolutely certain on this fact, since he hadn't been one of her lions. He _had_ been a solid EE student, though.

"Professor McGonagall," Acting Senior Undersecretary Faulks said, his face breaking into the closest approximation to a smile he could apparently manage these days, as he strode forward to shake her hand, "it's very good to see you again. It wasn't so long ago that it was myself and my parents you were visiting to explain magic and Hogwarts to."

"Doesn't time fly," Minerva gave him a nostalgic smile, "you've grown quite a bit since then."

Faulks gave her a small tight smile, as footsteps thundered overhead accompanied by shouting. "Shall we round them up, then?"

.oOo.

"This is…well, frankly I'm lost for words," Professor McGonagall huffed.

Timothy was inclined to agree with her. There was just something fascinatingly awful about watching Trudi Pratt in all her fluorescent pink glory trotting up Diagon Alley, screaming full blast at her errant children as they ran amok, aided and abetted by Felix, of course. It was like she'd landed from another planet.

Many of the other denizens of Diagon Alley obviously felt the same way and had stopped in their tracks to stare at the spectacle unfolding before them, one horrified mother covering her young son's eyes.

"TYLER! How many times have I told you about setting things on fire!" Trudi screamed as she shimmied her boob-tube back up to a relatively more decent height. "Get here, you little shit!"

"Maybe we should, ah, go to Flourish and Blotts and get her off the alley," Timothy suggested through gritted teeth as Trudi stormed back towards them, her orange lips pursed in barely contained rage as she dragged her screaming son along, Tiffany and Felix trailing along behind her.

"Will I ever be able to look Mr Flourish in the eyes again?" Professor McGonagall asked, looking slightly frazzled.

"Don't worry," Timothy sighed, "just pretend you're not with her. I'll do the rest…Trudi, bookshop next."

"Right," Trudi snapped, "it better not be run by those little goblin creeps. That one behind the counter tried staring down my top, the pervy little shit!"

"I want a book too!" Tyler bellowed now distracted from his tantrum. "Dragons! I want dragons!"

"You'll want a clip round the ear soon," Trudi shouted back as she stormed towards Flourish and Blotts, only slightly skidding on the cobbles in her strappy sandals.

"Dragons!" Tyler bellowed as he ran towards the bookshop, overtaking Professor McGonagall, as she tried to get as far from Trudi Pratt as she politely could.

Flourish and Blotts was blessedly cool and tranquil after the bustle of the alley and Timothy began to relax slightly. There was just something very soothing about spaces full of large quantities of books, the smell of paper, the way they muffled sound, their solid reassuring presence, the anticipation of an intriguing read…

"TYLER PRATT YOU GET HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Timothy sighed as he met Professor McGonagall's accusing stare, "I'll err, I'll go and see what she's up to," he sighed shuffling past the table displaying _New Releases!_ towards _Extreme Animal Husbandry_.

"If you think for two bloody seconds that me or your dad would let you have a bloody dragon…"

Striding round a bookcase, Timothy found Trudi berating her son by a display of books of specialist manuals more suitable for a dedicated dragon keeper than a small boy. Beyond an assistant stood transfixed, his thin face alternating between pasty pale and alarmingly red. Following the young man's line of sight…

What had Trudi been thinking when she dressed this morning. Timothy sidled up to his cousin. "Erm, Trudi," he hissed, "your, err, your top, its, err…" he gestured helplessly.

Trudi's head jerked down. "Well, sod," she exclaimed as she adjusted the boob-tube, so her lacy pink bra was no longer on display, "I knew I should have used that tit-tape stuff instead."

The poor sales assistant made a soft squeaking sound as he tried to get away unnoticed.

"Do you work here?" Trudi demanded as she stomped towards the terrified young man, "because my feet are bloody killing me and I need a shed load of books for my daughter for school…plus something on dragons for him," she nodded towards Tyler as she fished around in her handbag for the list. "Tim, have you got the bloody list?"

Timothy sighed as the young man finally noticed him, his face paling to a funny grey colour. "If we could have two lots of the set books for Hogwarts first years, that would be wonderful…and of course something on dragons suitable for a highly intelligent eight year old too, please. I'm afraid we're in something of a hurry today."

"Sir! Yes s-s-sir, yes, of course Sir," the young man stuttered as he backed away, before finally fleeing among the shelves.

"That was strange," Trudi said with a frown, "he seemed almost frightened."

"Just young and nervous," Timothy said as he looked around, "did you see where Tiffany and Felix went?"

"No," Trudi glared at him, " _you_ were keeping an eye on them remember."

"Fine, fine," Timothy huffed not remembering any such agreement. Reluctant to start an argument, he went to find Professor McGonagall instead. No doubt the dreadful pair had found something really unsuitable on hexes and curses and were even now poring over it while attempting to memorise the wand movements. Not that it would do them any good.

"Well?" Professor McGonagall demanded as he walked round the corner into the Transfiguration section.

"I got an assistant to help, so we should be able to leave soon," Timothy reassured her, "but we've still got Madam Malkin's, the Apothecary and Ollivander's after this."

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes with a groan.

"I'll quite understand if you wish to leave," Timothy said hoping she'd say no. Misery did love company after all. "I'll just tell Trudi that you had another appointment to get to or something."

Professor McGonagall seemed almost tempted for a moment. "No, no," she sighed, "I'll finish what I started…though I do appreciate the offer, young man." She gave him a small but warm smile.

"TYLER!"

Professor McGonagall winced. "She's utterly appalling!"

"Tell me about it," Timothy muttered, "I grew up with her."

. .oOo.

"Why not hand this to Carrow?" Timothy asked trying hard to hide his irritation.

Madam Bones smirked at him. "Ah, but isn't our poor esteemed Senior-Under-Secretary on sick leave? I wouldn't dream of disturbing his respite…so I've come to you, Mr Faulks. I think you'll be very interested in this one."

Scowling, Timothy turned back to the thick folder she'd handed him, flicking through the sheaf of parchment within, eyebrows rising as he read.

Was it possible for one person to be so self-absorbed and dense they couldn't see when they'd managed to offend everyone around them, even those they considered their allies? Timothy shook his head in disgust, as he carefully read through the folder of information the Haitian Department of Magical Law and Order had thoughtfully provided, along with the extremely indignant Mr McGuire.

In a space of a month, the man had managed to break numerous magical and religious taboos, offended a leading member of the Haitian Magical community and had done experimental works on two vulnerable young men who'd merely been looking for a job, the sort of thing that had been banned under international treaty since Grindelwald and WWII.

All this on top of the unpleasant findings of the last year or so in the Knockturn Alley area; Mr McGuire's name had popped up several times in connection with all sorts of interesting things, including Augustus Crabbe's now infamous brothel.

This was most likely the twisted individual responsible for Felix's permanent physical changes, poor lad. Not that he seemed to let it hold him back.

"I thought you might like a little bit of a pop at this one," Madam Bones said, "see what you can get out of him. He's been very resistant so far, been giving the lads a bit of a run around."

.oOo.

Timothy looked up at the sullen middle aged man who slumped in the chair on the other side of the desk in one of the DMLE's more secure interrogation rooms. It was a sparse space, the minimal furniture plain and utilitarian, the walls a depressing grey. Behind him was a window which let onto the observation suite where, Timothy was pretty certain, he was currently being watched by Madam Bones, and Wulfric, not to mention various senior members of the DMLE. The thought of it made his shoulder blades itch.

"Enjoy your trip?" Timothy asked, the scar through his lip twisting his smile into an ugly smile.

"Oh, fuck off," McGuire snarled slumping down as far as the manacles would let him. "Fucking amateur," he muttered.

Timothy ignored him. It was extraordinary just how utterly dull and boring McGuire really was in person. Average height and build, mousey hair, brown eyes and skin that still showed the signs of being exposed to the unfamiliar heat of tropical sunshine; McGuire was going to be very itchy in a few days time.

"Robert Calvin McGuire," Timothy gave him another smile, "I am Interrogator Faulks. I work for Mr Carrow and he's very interested in you." (Probably. Nothing like using the Big Lump as a bogey man.)

McGuire glared back, obviously not at all impressed, so he'd definitely not being following the news for the last few years or so. Shame. And now for the hard part.

"You used to live on Wig Alley in the Knockturn Area, after leaving Hogwarts," Timothy said as casually as he could, "No.4 Antipholus Terrace."

McGuire glared at him.

"According to your landlord, you had an experimental potions laboratory in your rooms, illegally of course. Quite a few complaints too…" he slowly leafed through the folder, "Aurors called to a number of disturbances with angry neighbours worried about toxic fumes…hmmm…and possible building demolishing explosions. Were you aware there was a parlour school next door?" he glared at the sullen and utterly unrepentant McGuire.

"Why should I give a toss," the unshaven man snarled, "about the grubby brats of some feckless trollops? Half of them barely had enough magic to warrant a wand even. Worthless, the lot of them, getting in the way of my work. Complaining day and night about the slightest things, the ingredients wasted, the experiments _ruined_ …" his jaw shut with a clack as he flushed, furious to realise he was giving any information away.

Determined to make up for his error, McGuire clammed up tighter than a constipated oyster. Grinding his teeth in frustration, Timothy pondered his options, cursing Bones in a small corner of his mind; he could carry on with his list of questions, to none of which he would get any sort of answer if he wasn't careful, frustrating both himself and Madam Bones. Could he change tactics? Use physical intimidation? Except that he really didn't have the build to get away with that, it would be like an aggressive stick-insect or something, not in the least bit threatening…not like Carrow, and that was a very dark road he was reluctant to go near.

Talking of dark roads, there was always that mental exercise Carrow did, where he made him project himself out and enter Carrow's mind. He suspected that actually he wasn't really, that somehow the large man had created a sort of neutral area within his mind to keep him safe from the really horrific toxic sludge that he was pretty sure infested the large man's mental recesses.

So if he just pushed out as he normally did…the interrogation room receded and darkened as a constellation of bright fires came into view, that he instinctively knew were people, Wulfric tinged with worry and the scent of the wolf, Madam Bones patient, biding her time, the DMLE personnel frustrated and bored, McGuire…

He dove forwards like an Olympic swimmer crashing into the light that was the prisoner's very essence. He felt rather than heard the scream, a physical thing that spiralled around and away from him thorny and tangling like brambles. Wrestling and tugging, he tore into the muddle of gold.

Memories, where were McGuire's memories? Here? He touched a tattered streamer of mist…no, just muddled impressions of something…daily tasks…routine, maybe…teeth flossing?

He moved on, latching onto an impossibly sided shape that swirled and twisted as he tried to rationalise it…old resentment overwhelmed him, bitterness at the oh so superior purebloods in his classes. Oh, he'd show them, he may only be a half-blood but he was cleverer, more talented than they ever would be, more driven to prove himself…

He forcibly tore himself away, before he lost himself completely, the tattered emotion/memory trailing away behind him leaking green slime as it went. That had been far too close, this was ridiculously dangerous, far more dangerous than Carrow had ever implied, and wasn't that just _typical_ of the man. He needed to know where McGuire had been, what he'd done where, who he'd met and why…it had to be here somewhere. McGuire was supposed to be a potions master which required a high level of organization and control but this was a chaotic cluttered mess of shape and colour and sound…

Lunging forward he tore through a drift of things like giant grapes or maybe even sea urchins that skittered away squeaking even as they attempted to stick to him and leach into his mind form. He tore at them, crushing them, swatting away at the feelings that they sprayed out, despair, frustration, giddy elation, anger, sick satisfaction, jealousy…

Memories, where were they. He sank his fingers down into the colour streaked drifts below, an invisible smile breaking across his face. Got them. Impressions streaked past him, of summer days, a favourite swing, reading books, the grind of revision by candle-light late into the night, jumping into a swimming pool, the tedious grind of basic but money-making potions as his Master drank himself to oblivion upstairs, a successful experimental mixture as the surprised cat grew wings moments after wolfing down the dosed treat, and then…blast, frustration as it escaped through an open window…a walk, fresh air, open hillside, a heavy knapsack on his back…a tabby cat leaping off the desk in the Transfiguration classroom, transforming mid-air into the severe form of Professor McGonnagall…

No, back, left a bit, he dove back in…he'd found it, all the information he'd been after, the deals and experiments and dosing of unwilling victims for people whose names he'd never quite bothered to learn. After all they weren't important; it was always about the elixirs, perfecting their transformative properties, a liquid answer to the animagus transformation…and then the perfect deal. Oh yes, this was it, Timothy tugged at the memory gleefully following it along…and then the deal went sour as the DMLE busted the place swarming like red cockroaches all over his precious work, smashing and breaking things with their ignorant ham-fisted hands, his beautiful test-subjects carted away by small minded dullards, unappreciated for what they were…so he'd grabbed what he could and fled…

Howling in triumph, Timothy sliced through the thread tearing at it with teeth and claws he didn't realise he'd got. Tangling it carefully into a ball, he stuffed it into his mouth (did he currently have a mouth? This was all very puzzling, but he could always ask Carrow later couldn't he) and pushed away, swatting clinging filaments and strands out of his way, biting and slicing at the amorphous shining things like sea cucumbers that tried to block his way…

"Tim…Tim… _Tim_ …"

The interrogation suite snapped back into focus, Wulfric looming over him, his expression frightened, angry and worried all at once, a strange fusion thing. How did he manage to pack so much emotion into one expression? He opened his mouth to ask but everything went strange and fluid and _sideways_.

oOo

The light was so intense it felt as if red hot skewers were being inserted into his eye. Groaning, he tried to swat it away, surprised when his movement was slow and sluggish. Where the heck was he? He squinted around at what appeared to be a small medical bay of some kind, a disapproving healer glaring at him from her work station. Well, that was sort of normal and reassuring.

"Finally," Wulfric said somewhere off to his left, his voice sounding far too relieved. Turing his head Timothy groaned as pain lanced across the front of his skull. What had he done, head-butted the floor? No wait, just an ill-advised attempt to extract information from an uncooperative person-of-interest, which meant of course that now he felt as if an elephant marching band was making its way across his skull.

"Mr Faulks," Madam Bones' voice came from his right.

Timothy winced. This was it, he had single headedly destroyed all Carrow's work building a cordial relationship with the DMLE. "Madam Bones," he croaked, steeling himself for the worst.

"Well, at least you remember who I am," she sounded positively relieved. Puzzled, Timothy tried to shift round to actually see her, cursing his missing eye. What was going on? Gritting his teeth against the pain, he heaved himself into a more upright position, trying to ignore the fussing and helping hands that erupted around him.

"I'm fine, honestly," he wheezed, more to reassure himself than anything else.

"Not for lack of trying," Wulfric growled, "I leave your side for _ten minutes_ and you nearly succeed in frying your brain. Do you have no sense of self preservation, or is this yet another thing Carrow's setting out to stamp out of you?"

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Madam Bones cut in to Timothy's relief, before Wulfric could really get going, "Mr Faulks, precisely what is this?" the Head of the DMLE held a carefully sealed jar up, the sort normally used to store memories in for archival purposes. Inside this one was a wisp of colour streaked something that thrashed and twisted against the walls of the jar, settling in the bottom momentarily before attempting to unscrew the lid. Timothy watched it with a frown.

"It fell out of your mouth," Madam Bones helpfully explained, her face deadpan but her eyes wary.

"Oh," Timothy shifted uncomfortably, this must be… "it's a memory, or possibly multiple memories that I managed to retrieve from McGuire's mind. Have you tried watching it yet?" he asked as the thing tried growing spikes in a futile attempt to punch holes in the lid of the jar.

"That's a memory?" Wulfric said dubiously.

"Not like any memory I've ever seen," Madam Bones gave the struggling thing a glare, "and believe me when I say I've seen more than a few in my time." She pinned him with a penetrating stare. "Precisely what did you do to McGuire?"

Timothy sighed unhappily; here it was, crunch time. "I entered McGuire's mind, since he was being so uncooperative, and…so…I got frustrated and…Madam Bones, I apologise, I've jeopardised the case and…"

"You _entered_ his mind," Madam Bones leaned forward her eyes sharp, "using legilimency?"

"Legilimency?" Wulfric echoed, "I've never seen it do that before."

Timothy gave them a puzzled look. "I've vaguely heard about it, the odd obscure reference in the Library at Hogwarts with regards to wandless magic and the like, but nothing specific to what it was. Is that what Carrow's been teaching me?"

"Carrow? Of course, but Legilimency doesn't normally work like that, _entered_ the mind indeed," Madam Bones growled in frustration, "the man is utterly brilliant at what he does, but sometimes I would really, really like to strangle him."

"Join the queue," Wulfric muttered. Timothy hid his snort of laughter as a cough; just in time too, considering Madam Bones' disapproving glare.

"So, what aren't you telling me?" Timothy asked, "I remember projecting out of my body as Carrow taught me to and entering McGuire's mind, found _that_ ," he nodded at the jar where the memory was still objecting to its capture, "and then I left…" He drifted off as he took in Wulfric's and Madam Bones' strange expressions.

"The first thing we knew something was wrong was when McGuire began screaming and trying to claw his own eyeballs out," Madam Bones said slowly, "and you were far too still, so I of course entered the interrogation room with the intent of finishing the interview, which was when you fell out of your seat."

"You were bleeding," Wulfric glared at him, "from your nose mainly but your eyes and ears were trying to join in too."

"Looked like that time one of the Unspeakables we were working with bit of more than he...or she could chew," Madam Bones chuckled grimly. "Please don't do whatever it is that Carrow has taught you to do again. I really would prefer not having to arrest you for illegal mind magics if at all possible…or have to have your brains scraped off the walls," she added with a grim smile.

"Which doesn't help us with this," she sighed giving the jar a little poke. The trapped memory flung itself against the jar wall attempting to savage her finger through the glass. "Personally, I have absolutely no desire to stick my face in this…did you actually view the memory before you extracted it?" she asked.

Timothy blinked, "Erm, I, err, I think so. He was fighting me pretty hard at that moment…"

"No, I think he was _dying_ at that point," Wulfric muttered. Timothy ignored him.

"But you did see his memory," Madam Bones demanded.

"Er, yes," Timothy tried to edge away, "I did find out the location of a lab he helped set up about a year ago. I'm pretty certain it's not one that's popped up on the surveillance intel yet either."

Madam Bones' expression turned predatory. "Wonderful," she smiled showing far too many teeth.

. .oOo.

"Where are we going?" Timothy asked, mildly apprehensive as to the answer as Wulfric dragged him down the street towards town.

"We're going to have some fun," Wulfric grinned at him, "just for once."

Fun? What was that? Timothy thought sarcastically as he strode along the pavement, his great coat swirling around his ankles, Black Russian hanging from the cleft in his lip. He'd attempted to look casual that morning, taken one horrified look at himself in the mirror and then shoved his normal attire back on.

Timothy sighed as he trudged along. Of all the things he could be doing with his day off. He could be relaxing in front of the television right now, rotting his brain with sit-com re-runs, or reading a book or even being sensible and catching up on his sleep, but no, no, he was allowing himself to be dragged to who knew where by the local overly friendly werewolf. Brilliant.

"Come on, Timmo when was the last time you did something purely for enjoyment," Wulfric asked, "and no, your morning constitutional to get the paper doesn't count."

"I go jogging," Timothy glared at him, feeling rather got at.

"Jogging," Wulfric shook his head sadly, "seriously Tim, you're like an old man shuffling around in his slippers. Before you know it you'll start smoking a pipe."

Of all the… Timothy opened his mouth ready to tell Wulfric exactly what he thought of that idea, but thought better of it as they gave a slow moving mother with pushchair room to pass, her trailing brood all carrying brightly coloured school bags and lunch boxes covered in cartoon characters, a silver car gliding past.

"When was the last time you ate out, seriously," Wulfric glanced at him.

"Well…" Timothy strained his memory, "err…we had a takeaway from that Chinese place a couple of months ago…"

Wulfric shook his head sadly. "Doesn't count at all, plus they won't deliver any more….which is a shame because they were really good."

"And Artemis was only being friendly too," Timothy said, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Friendly to the chicken chow mein you mean," Wulfric smirked. "So, restaurant," Wulfric gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder as they walked past the small row of shops, a chemist, a hairdressers and a little mini-metro, a lad in a cheap tracksuit guarding a couple of jack-russells straining on their leads whining, giving them suspicious looks as they strode past.

Timothy sighed, resigned to his fate.

"You're going to enjoy this," Wulfric gave him a toothy grin over his shoulder as they crossed the road.

So much for his quiet day off, Timothy grumbled to himself as he trailed after the far too cheerful werewolf. A silver car slowly drove past. Wait, "Isn't that the car from earlier," he hissed to Wulfric.

Wulric glanced at it, froze, then started walking faster.

"One of yours is it," Timothy asked as he caught up. Wulfric gave him a sideways look.

"Fine, you don't need to tell me, especially if it's going to cause you trouble," Timothy sighed. When had life got so complicated? "Restaurant, right?"

.oOo.

The cherry trees in the market place were festooned with lights, lending the space an unseasonably festive air which was totally at odds with Timothy's previous experiences of the place. The last time he'd visited, admittedly well over a year ago, he'd been left with the impression of down-at-heel gentility. The Georgian and Victorian buildings around the market place had looked shabby and unloved, the few shops basic and clinging on by the skin of their teeth.

But now…the streets swarmed with people, students from the local collage hanging around after tutorials, late shoppers, and people dressed up for a night out.

The car-park as a result, Timothy noted, was full; people had even resorted to leaving their vehicles in strange places. In fact somebody was about to have their afternoon ruined by a traffic warden, and quite rightly too considering they'd been daft enough to park on the double-yellow lines on the tight bend of road that led into Church Lane.

And the shops…there had been a fair few empty shops before, a smattering of "to let" and "for sale" signs. Those were all gone; even places that he was pretty sure had been empty for years and years were now obviously occupied or in the process of being done up.

Even the church was getting in on the action, its wrought iron gates now spanned by an arch of foliage and lights.

In front of it sat the war memorial, a plinth of white marble topped by a bronze angel, wings out spread. Timothy peered at the names engraved on the bronze plaques fixed to the plinth. Under the title "Ypres" and a date, so many names, all of them so young…

"So where's this restaurant them?" Timothy nudged him with his elbow.

"Oh…yes, yes of course," Wulfric grinned, "the Starganza. One of Mrs Thorpe's ladies recommended the place to me. Apparently her husband took her there for their anniversary."

There was really wasn't anything he could do as the werewolf physically towed him across the square through the throngs to what had originally been a small theatre, but had then been converted into an equally tiny cinema. Now it was a restaurant of some kind, so new the paintwork was probably still damp. There were even topiaried privet bushes in pots by the doors.

.oOo.

"So how many violations of the Statute of Secrecy do you think we can get them on so far?" Timothy muttered softly as he glared at the salt and pepper pots that were slowly ambling round a pen in the centre of the table. Every so often they would bump into one another and clumsily stagger off. The bottle of vinegar obviously disliked the smaller condiments with a passion and would lash out whenever they got too close; the ketchup on the other hand seemed completely indifferent to the goings on.

"Erm…yeah, quite a few I'd have thought," Wulfric gave the seasoning rodeo a dubious look over the top of his menu, "but it's not what we're here for. Fun, Tim, remember?"

Timothy gave him a nasty glare as he picked up his own menu. "Let's see what they've got…" he murmured to himself, still annoyed. "The children's sweets menu looks more like the trolley on the Hogwarts Express…Wulfric…Wulfric?" Timothy looked up in annoyance, to find Wulfric gazing up at the ceiling, seemingly in a trance.

"Wulfric?" he tried again, but the werewolf hushed him, motioning him to look upwards.

Frowning, he craned his neck back, and nearly fell out of his chair in shock. Jupiter loomed above them in all its glory, slowly revolving bands of clouds snaking across its surface, swirls of interference arising where they interacted, culminating in the swirling eddies that surrounded the Great Red Spot which stared down at them like some sort of baleful eye.

A misshapen lump of rock lazily tumbled past. Timothy blinked as he watched it glide past and now he noticed it, the small orange dot of Io as it orbited close to Jupiter…and also a small pale white disk…was that Ganymede or Europa? He could never quite remember their order, though he was pretty certain it wasn't Callisto, because he was pretty sure Callisto was really dark and heavily cratered…

"Gentlemen, would you like to place your orders?" the waiter asked, grinning down at them. Disturbingly, he appeared to have a very small ginger kitten perched on his top lip. "The ceiling is pretty amazing isn't it? This guy from Aquila Ind. helped us set it up, Jon I think, really nice guy, he even set it up so we can change the view if we want to; makes the monthly Astronomy nights really fun."

Timothy almost groaned in frustration; and he had thought Professor Schmidt knew better, but then the man seemed incapable of turning down a challenge, and he had to admit the results were absolutely stunning, he risked another glance of swirling storm clouds.

"Of course only a psykic or whatever they call themselves can adjust it, but still," the man shrugged with a grin.

"Wizard, actually," Timothy pointed out, "or Witch, if you're female."

"Huh, really," the waiter said, "seems a bit old fashioned. I think empath or maybe even psyker sounds way cooler."

"I think I'll stick with wizard," Timothy grimaced, trying not to be impolite.

"Me too," Wulfric chimed in, "or werewolf. I'm happy with…"

"Werewolf?" the waiter practically squealed. "That's so cool, and I thought it was brilliant when those vampires from the Castle started turning up to the Astronomy nights. One even complemented me on my veins. I've never been so flattered in my life…"

Timothy sighed heavily as the waiter wittered on. Even the Coven were getting out more than he was. He really must be living under a rock or something if a group of people with a collective age of a millennium were getting out and about more than he was.

.oOo.

"…definitely employing house-elves in their kitchen," Timothy growled as he lit a cigarette.

"Maybe their cooks are just very talented," Wulfric shook his head with a smile, "I thought house-elves only really occurred in old family manors and the like.

"Not necessarily," Timothy grumbled as he glared around the street. Contrary to expectations, it was not getting quieter, just less muggle maybe. There were certainly fewer cars around and definitely increased numbers of people whose humanity was probably a little questionable.

Busier…and stranger, Timothy thought, as he watched a young woman with surprisingly real wings sprouting out of her back walk past. She and her friends looked rather muggle from their attire. Not many wizarding folk in his experience were conversant in muggle style-trends, even muggle-borns. Something about being out of the loop…unless, of course, they were actual muggles who'd been taking transformative potions; he closed his eye in exasperation. Oh Throne, this was a complete cluster-fuck; that is, _if_ it were discovered by the DMLE.

But then again maybe Carrow wouldn't be interested. The infuriating man was happy to rant about the extermination of all xenos and abhumans but was suspiciously tolerant of vampires and werewolves. Obviously he had different, inscrutable, only-understood-by-giant-megalomaniacs-from-the-future criteria in mind when it came to this sort of thing, like if it were to his advantage.

Wulfric elbowed him in the ribs. "You're off in the clouds again. Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, obviously concerned.

Timothy rubbed at his forehead. "Yes, yes, just…I wished I'd been more aware of what was going on here. I've just been so caught up in work, that…"

"Hey, don't beat yourself up about it," Wulfric slung an arm around his shoulders, "you've been stopping Carrow from destroying the world. That's pretty much a full time job. Since this is the first day you've let yourself have off in about three months, why don't you just enjoy it? Let's make an evening of it, so…where to next?"

Timothy looked around the busy Market Square, feeling rather nonplussed. He had quite frankly had no idea what entertainments could be found here, particularly late on a weekday afternoon. In fact given the size and rural nature of Godric's Hollow it should be deader than a graveyard at this time, except for the odd pub of course, but only an utter idiot would incapacitate themselves with alcohol near Carrow.

"How about…over there," Wulfric pointed to what had been the Market Hall until it had closed down sometime in the early 80's. Now it was sporting a gaudy flashing sign declaring it to be the _Night Market_.

"Do you think they named it after the bus?" Timothy asked. Wulfric gave him a blank look.

"You haven't been on the Knight Bus, have you?" Timothy grinned sensing a chance for a little light revenge.

"Er, no, can't say I have," Wulfric gave him a funny look, "should I have?"

"No, not really," Timothy smirked at the werewolf, "something to look forward to, though," he chuckled to himself as he strode off towards the old Market Hall, a slightly worried Wulfric trailing after him.

It was obvious that the arched portico of the Market Hall had become something of a meeting place for the local youth, considering the group of teenagers gathered at one end. One of them was sharing around the headphones of his portable CD player so his friends could hear some new piece of music, most of whom were wearing an odd mish-mash of wizarding and muggle clothing. No knowing who was magical and who wasn't.

Nearby stood a witch in practical travelling robes, with a broom tucked under her arm; a rather nice model too, if Timothy was any judge. She was obviously waiting for someone, as she kept casting tempus charms and then glaring out into the square.

There was even a very normal looking muggle family carrying bulging bags of shopping waiting for their taxi to arrive, their children tired enough to begin bickering, much to the parents' exasperation.

A shadowy figure lurked beside the entrance, eyeing the group of teenagers hungrily. Timothy gave the predatory vampire a stern glare as he went past, causing it to do a double take. Cringing, it slunk off round the corner.

"I'm taking it that this is in fact a market," Timothy muttered to Wulfric as they entered the noisy crowded space of the Hall. He blinked rapidly, almost dazed by the sheer sensory overload of the place. The cavernous space of the hall was crammed with stalls stuffed higgledy-piggledy in between the cast iron pillars that soared up to the arch of the ceiling.

Everywhere there was produce, objects and services for sale, colourful awnings proclaiming stall holders' names, advertising signs that flashed and morphed and even tried talking to passers-by.

"This is…" Timothy began, lost for words.

"It is, isn't it?" Wulfric said, sounding almost as dazed as Timothy felt.

A nearby fruit and vegetable stall was winding down for the evening, but the book stall next was still very busy. Sidling closer, Timothy could see that it was stocked with a mixture of both magical and non-magical texts, all shelved together in topics. It was odd seeing _O_ _ne Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ by Phyllida Sporesitting next to _The Well-Tempered Garden_ by Christopher Lloyd _._ The customers were nearly as mixed as the books, and it didn't stop there…

Further along, they passed an electrical appliance store that offered a conversion service _"for the magical home,"_ someone in grey robes fiddling with the internal workings of a portable television…

…second-hand robes and muggle toiletries…

…a butcher's, whose offal products were on prominent display, much to the delight of a passing hag…

…a clothing alteration service which looked non-magical at first glance, but the lady ironing a shirt had her wand stuck through her bun…

…an apothecary, the stench of which followed them down the aisle…

…a new-age hippy place with fairy figurines and crystals and packages of something suspiciously "herbal" on a stand behind the counter. An oddly dressed Witch was trying on one of the luridly coloured "made in Peru" ponchos …

…someone selling pre-made potions, a small gaggle of young women spilling out of the stall as they walked past, dressed up muggle-style for an evening out, little black dresses and strappy sandals with towering heels. One of them was already sporting fluffy cat-ears and a tabby striped tail. Her friend downed a small vial, just bought, her companions ohhing and ahhing as her hair rapidly cycled through a spectrum of colours, before settling on a blending of blues, greens and purples.

"Is it even safe for muggles to drink those?" Wulfric asked, "Does anybody even know?" He looked at Timothy. Timothy shrugged; he had a nasty feeling they were going to find out over the next few years…

…a couple of non-magical police officers who had a scrawny young man in cuffs.

"I ain't done nothing," the youth complained, as he fidgeted.

"So my eyes were deceiving me, were they?" one of the officers said. "That lady's handbag just magically jumped into your hands then?"

"Yeah…no…but, well…" the youth stumbled over his words as he became increasingly agitated.

"He's no wizard," a hag shrieked pointing an accusing finger, "he ran up to Elsie and just grabbed her handbag and tried to run off with it. That's when I hit him with mine!" Elsie nodded as she dabbed at her scarred and pock-marked cheeks. "I was just shopping," she wailed.

"Ladies," one of the police officers raised his hands placatingly to the two hags, obviously unhappy with the situation. Frankly, Timothy couldn't blame him, a muggle lad trying to mug a hag, and getting caught by muggle policemen, who were now talking to the obviously not-normal victims and the small crowd of witnesses, one of whom was blatantly a vampire. Where did all this end?

"Wulfric," he gestured at the surrounding crowds, "this is…I don't even know where to begin."

Wulfric's laugh sounded slightly hysterical. "This isn't a breaking of the Statute of Secrecy, Timmo, this is so far past it, it might as well be in a galaxy far, far away."

Timothy rolled his eye. "Right…cup of tea?" He pointed to the café set in the middle of the hall.

The café had invested in a large potted orange tree (magically maintained) which was utterly infested with tree fairies, underneath which were set chairs and tables. The tables even had red and white gingham tablecloths. Initially, it looked charming, but…

He glared as a couple of the blasted little flying pests worked together to manoeuvre a sugar cube out of the bowl and into a net he suspected had been made from the shed hair of customers.

"Blasted little nuisances," he muttered as the tree fairies flew off.

"They'll be back for more," Wulfric smiled over his coffee cup.

"We need Aurors permanently stationed here in Godric's Hollow," Timothy said suddenly, "except…" he looked around, "we can't. They're bound by oath to uphold the Statute of Secrecy, not to mention all the laws relating to the magical alteration of muggle objects. They would destroy all of this," he gestured to the cheerful chaos of the market, "and I'm not sure that's such a good idea…it would destroy the R&D department...gut it…"

"And that's before they started looking at Mr Carrow and his other business activities a little too closely…" Wulfric pointed out.

Timothy nodded, distracted, "but it's all here because of Mr Carrow…they're all as reliant as us on him just existing. No Carrow, no Aquila Ind. and none of this would exist…but something needs to be done," he shook his head in frustration. "It's like a free for all, there's no regulation or enforcement relating to the magical side of things at all, and when the two mix..." he grimaced, "people need protection."

"Who's making sure that the acromantula eggs are genuine and aren't being sold to the underage, or that nobody is substituting cheaper ingredients in the potions on sale? Do we even know whether the magical alterations to muggle technology that that guy back there was doing are safe, that they aren't going to suddenly burst into flames or something?"

"Or what about the sheer number of erm…creatures, and I speak as one of them here," Wulfric said, "what about laws pertaining to them and their rights…do we see this as an opportunity to make things better? Because Merlin knows it needs it."

Timothy scrubbed at his face with a hand, feeling as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. "We're going to have to liaise with the local Police ourselves and just enforce what we can…as for the law…we've got that constitution Carrow put together, I don't know whether he considered the magical side of things though. You know what he's like." He grimaced. "I'll have to have a look and see what I can put together."

"No, you're not," Wulfric gave him a severe look, "you've got enough on your plate right now. _Delegate,_ Timmo."

Timothy almost sagged into his chair with relief. "Fine, fine, I'll talk to Slyte…and Curtis, maybe get Percy in on it too…possibly Carrow too. This is something that needs dealing with as a matter of some urgency."

. .oOo.

The distant howling rumble broke the silence of the morning and Timothy paused in his running to watch as a blue comet of fire ascended into the clear sky getting smaller as it went until it disappeared into the far distance.

"Wonder if they got ATC clearance for that," he muttered to himself. Bet that would be an interesting conversation, _"we just need some clear airspace so we can go on a little jaunt into low earth orbit…"_ yep, that would go down well. A small paranoid part of him couldn't help but wonder what they were up to…was Carrow involved somehow…or was it just the R&D fruit-loops?

He shook his head, no point worrying about it, Timothy thought as he resumed his jogging, unable to help the grin as he ran past a dog walker out in his flat-cap, his cheap plastic bag full of newspapers. There was plenty to be cheerful about, no need to spoil the mood.

The man's small terrier yapped hysterically as he passed, fading into the distance as he turned the corner and ran alongside a closely trimmed privet hedge. It was all so blissfully _normal_ , the sun was actually shining, he'd even managed to persuade Wulfric that he wouldn't be in imminent danger running round the sleepy suburban streets of Godric's Hollow, so for the first time in what felt like months he was out completely alone. It felt so liberating.

And just to put the cherry on top of the cake, Carrow was going to be gone for an entire nine months, _nine months!_ Of course he would be returning for meetings, training with equipment he couldn't take with him and the like, but he wasn't going to be living here. The difference in atmosphere at the Lodge was already changing, almost anticipatory of the coming Carrow-less-ness; one of the gardeners had even smiled at him this morning.

He swerved around an older lady out and about on her mobility scooter, her little white dog glaring at him suspiciously from its place in the basket on the front. Further down the road were a couple of people in blue uniforms who had a rather frantic look to them.

Timothy watched them in concern as he approached; they didn't stop him as he went past. They weren't police…the RSPCA; he gave their van a curious glance as he went past. Not his problem, he grinned to himself as he jogged past.

There was rustling in the leylandii hedge alongside him, almost as if whatever it was were trailing him…

A rustling explosion of leaves, twigs and _something_ erupted out of the hedge barrelling into him, knocking him flat on the pavement, shoving the air from his lungs with a yell. The something sat on his chest, grumbling and huffing, before licking a very wet and hot stripe across his face.

Groaning in disgust, Timothy tried to sit up, swiping at his face and dislodging the creature that was affectionately pinning him down into his lap.

"What the…" Timothy drifted off in puzzlement as he attempted to recognise the animal. It looked a little bit like a cat, sort of, if you squinted and put your head on one side, but then it also had bat-like wings, and a long tail with spines which it was now carefully washing, and a strange mixture of fur and scales all in a dark inky blue as if it couldn't decide which one it wanted, so it had just gone for both.

Perking its ears up at his movement, it gazed up at him with big yellow eyes, its pink tongue still sticking out.

"You look absolutely ridiculous," Timothy muttered, noticing the overly energetic creature was wearing a collar with a bone shaped tag hanging off it. "Hold still," he growled at the squirming creature as he tried to read the engraving. "Muffin? Seriously?" He shook his head at the naming idiocy of some people; hopefully their children hadn't suffered the same terrible fate. On the other side was a phone number, a local one by the look of it.

"Err…excuse me," A voice came from behind him.

Timothy twisted round as much as he was able, given his lap full of wriggling bouncy creature. Obviously it was a juvenile member of its species given its almost puppyish behaviour. Muffin gave a startled burp, followed by a whoosh of super heated air that whistled past his ear by inches. He could actually feel his hair frazzle.

"What the _hell_?!" He glared down at the contents of his lap.

Muffin gazed up at him all innocent and wide eyed, before pouring off his lap and trying to make a bee-line for the road.

"Oh no, you don't," Timothy snapped as he smartly grabbed Muffin's collar. Muffin objected strongly to his or her capture, wriggling, squirming and flapping her or his wings as he or she tried to get away, squeaking indignantly.

"Here, I've got a lead," the lady RSPCA person bustled forward, efficiently slipping a rope halter over Muffin's head, "there we go. Do you know him?"

"No, not particularly," Timothy glared at the blatantly sulking creature as he climbed to his feet. "There's a contact number on "Muffin's" name tag…must be some sort of experimental cross-breed," he growled in frustration. Just what he needed, some idiot producing mashed-up creatures in their garden shed for fun and profit. "Some sort of cat…dragon, maybe wyvern…I don't know, it's not really my area of expertise," he grimaced. The RSPCA people exchanged wary glances.

"Muffin! _Muffin!_ " a frantic voice called. Approaching, loping down the road came a lanky man in glasses and a tracksuit that was at least ten years old, "Muffin! You naughty boy, running away like that!"

Muffin hearing the familiar voice began pulling at the lead, squeaking and chirping in excitement as he jumped up and down, wings frantically flapping. The man quickly clipped a lead to Muffin's collar, easily dodging the creature's affectionate licks. "You silly thing, honestly! What were you thinking running off like that," he cooed ruffling Muffin's ears, "thank-you ever so much for finding him," he smiled at them, "my little Tara would be devastated if she lost her pet…oh! Sir! Interrogator Faulks, Sir!"

Timothy held his sigh in, as the man turned the earnest gushing on him, the two RSPCA officers giving them curious looks.

"…sorry, Sir, that Muffin interrupted your morning. I hope he wasn't too destructive…"

"Do you have contact details for Muffin's breeder?" Timothy interrupted before the man could really get going, "I'd be very appreciative." So appreciative he'd pay the person a visit while fully armed just to make sure they were completely clear on his opinion on their activities. The sooner he could sort something policing out for the place the better.

.oOo.

Timothy sighed to himself as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair the sound of Dalziel going through the report from Accounting a soporific hum in the background. He suppressed a yawn as he gazed out of the windows of the boardroom; he was getting too old for this sort of thing, his back ached all the time, and his hair …his _hair_ was definitely undeniably going grey. He hadn't realised until he'd got a good look at himself this morning in the bathroom mirror and seen all the silver streaks. It was official; working for Carrow aged you by twenty years at least.

"This all looks very promising," Roberts said as he leafed through the report, "the Colombians appear satisfied with the performance of the Cadia IV in all its variants."

"Doesn't seem fazed by anything, does it?" Dalziel interjected. "Heat, humidity… _mud_ …"

"Wulfric proved _that_ nearly a year ago," Timothy growled, bored out of his skin, "silly idiot dropped one in a ditch in the dark. Took him over five minutes to find it. I suspect he summoned it in the end."

"Magic proof too then," Dennis said from where he sat ensconced behind his laptop as he took the minutes for the meeting, "wait a minute…I should leave that out, shouldn't I…"

"Quite," Curtis sniffed delicately, "but it all means that we've got several other governments making discrete enquiries as to contracts. The Accounts Department are about as happy as they ever get…Franklin, _don't_ eat all the figgy-biscuits please."

Franklin gave her a guilty grin, sinking down into the leather upholstered chair as Timothy sank back into his bored stupor, the meeting dragging on around him.

"…like to contribute anything?" Timothy startled, blinking as he found Curtis giving him a very pointed look down the table. Embarrassed he shifted in his chair uncomfortable to find himself the centre of attention, his mind busily scrambling for equilibrium.

"British Eagle Airlines," he blurted sending a half-hearted glare down the table to Carrow, "when were you going to tell us you'd started an airline?"

Curtis sighed in exasperation as the others froze.

"British Eagle Airlines?" Dalziel asked, scratching the balding spot on the top of his head. "What's that and what's it got to do with us?"

Timothy scowled at Carrow, who glared sullenly back. "Mr Carrow owns it, and somehow we've supplied the company two aircraft…space shuttles, with more on the way. I only found out because I went and did a little digging."

"And then Timothy came to me," Curtis pursed her lips in disapproval, "and we did even more digging, including paying them a visit."

"It was fascinating," Timothy leaned back in his chair, "they were almost as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Fancy that now." He gave Carrow a long look.

"So where are _they_ operating from then?" Dalziel asked, looking around the board room as if it would give him answers.

"Other side of the airfield," Curtis said, "which is busily being turned into an airport. They've bought all that land with the abandoned farm buildings."

Dalziel stared. "What…how?"

Curtis could only shrug.

"The usual way," Timothy muttered, "with diggers and builders."

"Those extra air shuttles we made," Franklin scowled thoughtfully at the table, "the extras we made after Big Bertha, the ones Professor Schmidt helped out with…that's where they've gone, isn't it?"

Everybody turned and stared at Carrow who seemed far more interested in his data-slate as it chimed, his leather embossed robes and elaborately engraved goblin-steel armour looking particularly out of place in a modern board-room. Timothy felt his stomach sink as a satisfied smirk passed across the large man's face.

"The R&D department have been successful in their endeavour of placing a communications satellite in orbit," Carrow smiled at them the expression never quite reaching his chilly eyes.

"Ah, the shuttle this morning," Timothy burst out, "now I understand. I bet it took them, what…five minutes or so to get up out of the Earth's atmosphere and then the rest of the morning putting it in orbit and testing it and what not…" he trailed off Carrow continued to stare at him in interest. It was not a comfortable place to be.

"Wait," Dalziel said, "why do we suddenly have a communications satellite?"

"As I will be away in Scotland for much of the next year," Carrow explained as he rearranged the folds of his robes, "I need a way to keep up with the office. I will be having a satellite dish put on the roof and a pocket generator installed in my quarters at Hogwarts to further facilitate this."

Which Timothy was pretty certain Carrow had failed to inform Headmaster Dumbledore about in any way shape or form. Brilliant.

"And of course," Carrow continued, "this is just the first step in our space program."

"What space program?"

"It's rather minor at the moment," Carrow tilted his head apparently amused by the whole thing, "it seems rather ridiculous to term it a "space program". Still, regular orbital insertions, and then the Moon, to build a colony by the end of this year. There's a lot to be gained, privacy, working room, access to minerals without awkward questions, the Moon is rich in iron…and then of course Mars…the rest of the Solar System…and eventually we will have the resources to contemplate inter-stellar exploration. That is my end goal. It is rather frustrating being stuck on one planet for so long."

Timothy stared at the giant in silence. Was this truly possible? Except they now had working energy weapons, a few years earlier he would have scoffed at the possibility of those, so…

"Isn't there some sort of international treaty or something with regards to mining rights and land rights in space? Stop nations and individuals from just grabbing stuff?" Dalziel helpfully asked.

"Are they able to enforce it?" Carrow raised an eyebrow, his thoughts on the matter quite clear.

"Erm, currently? Probably not," Franklin said.

Carrow smirked, his eyes hard and cold.

"Like to see him explain _that_ to the UN," Roberts muttered.

"These ridiculous little governments shouldn't make rules and agreements that they can't actually enforce in any way," Carrow growled.

"Right," Roberts grimaced, "next topic."

The boardroom descended into uncomfortable silence.

"From an _Inquisitorial_ point of view, though, at the moment, British Eagle Airlines, it makes a lot of sense," Timothy said thoughtfully, "a minor airline that flies to smaller airports and less popular destinations, some of them rather out of the way too, easily overlooked, particularly by any local magical authorities…it's an excellent idea, particularly since their fleet are made up of rather off-beat aircraft, everything from a Bombardier Q400 to a retro-fitted DC-10. Means when Big Bertha…"

"Hammer of Justice," Carrow hissed.

"…turns up," Timothy carried on, "she's far less likely to catch people's attention." He nodded at Carrow.

"That is very much my thinking too," Carrow almost smiled, giving him an approving look.

"It'll make hunting down that cult considerably easier," Timothy agreed.

"Timothy," Curtis growled glaring at him disapprovingly, "you're supposed to be on our side…on to our next topic, Expo '95," Curtis gave the others a severe look as they suppressed groans, casting cautious glances down the table to where Carrow sat in all his glory.

Carrow smirked back at them as he stroked Artemis's head. "Excellent. I'm glad you brought that up, because I've had a number of ideas for the design of our…"

"That's quite all right, Allesandor," Curtis interrupted, "I've taken the precaution of commissioning a professional designer to take care of that. I've checked their credentials and they've done work for this sort of thing before, so _understand,_ " she glared at Carrow, "the constraints and regulations that have to be taken into account."

Carrow glared at them rather half-heartedly, his arms crossed over his chest, cold eyes watching them carefully. Far too accepting by half, Timothy thought, as he watched him warily.

"So the big thing for the Expo is the new plasma rifle," Roberts said. "Seriously, this thing actually works?"

"Oh yes," Franklin said around a mouthful of biscuit, crumbs falling down his front, "we struggled with the battery life at first, but…"

"And of course we'll want the tank as the centre-piece of the display," Carrow butted in, obviously of the belief that this was a given.

"Tank?" Roberts looked around warily.

" _The_ tank," Curtis sighed heavily.

"Yes, the _tank_ ," Timothy groaned.

Franklin buried his face in his hands. "That _bloody_ tank," he wailed in a muffled tone.

Carrow glared at them at all. " _My_ tank is a serious weapon of war, both psychologically intimidating and an effective war machine, which is why it should be the centre piece of our display. It would be an excellent mascot for Aquila Industries."

"The best thing about that blasted tank is the main gun," Franklin groaned, "the rest of it…honestly it's like an A to Z of how not to build a tank. Some of the guys actually _cried,_ because of it. I mean, rivets… _rivets_ ," he glared down the table at Carrow.

"Well, of course it's going to have rivets," Carrow glared back, "how else is the armour supposed to be held on?"

"Not a single sloping surface, either," Franklin threw his hands up in despair, "the thing's a bloody death trap. And then _he_ had it bloody gilded," he jabbed an accusing finger at Carrow.

"It's my personal tank," Carrow growled, "I need it to be gilded to indicate my status," he said as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

"Right…so no tank," Roberts said as he checked the meeting itinerary again.

"No tank," Dennis agreed as he tapped away at his laptop, "but definitely the plasma rifle...does it have a name yet?"

"Solaris," Curtis said, Franklin nodding in agreement.

"And the Cadia V…"

"Yup, just basic upgrades on the Cadia IV," Franklin explained, "we've improved the balance so it's easier in the hands and we've also slightly altered the bayonet fitting and improved the bayonet design. It's a proper survival knife now. Nice and sturdy."

"So you can stab people with it and use it for chopping firewood and gutting squirrels," Timothy said.

"Exactly," Franklin smiled, "should be popular."

"A whole smorgasbord of ammo types…" Roberts continued, " _imploding_ grenades?" He stared around the board room. "How long before they get banned under International treaty, I wonder?"

"That is the million dollar question," Timothy sighed, "isn't it generally the cruelty of the injuries inflicted on people that gets things banned? I mean, land-mines rip limbs off and shower you with shrapnel, and once laid, they can be difficult to find and disarm…"

"On the other hand our energy weapons should cauterize any injuries they cause," Franklin said, "that's if they don't just vaporise you outright."

"Right," Curtis gave them all a stern look, "so now we've considered some of the ethical implications of our latest products, could we move on to the next topic of discussion."

.oOo.

A huge furry paw snaked over the edge of the desk as it quested its way towards the plate where a few forlorn biscuits still sat.

"Artemis," Timothy sighed, pushing the plate out of her reach, "chocolate isn't good for you…at all."

Artemis made a soft huffing grumble as she nudged into him, her nose snuffling at the folders and paperwork he'd had to bring to the meeting. "Artemis," Timothy hissed in exasperation. She had grown so large now there was little he could do to dissuade her when she had made her mind up to do something.

The large cat gazed up at him, her blue eyes round and innocent, the tip of her tongue protruding. With a huff, she leaned against him.

"You're far too heavy for this," Timothy grimaced as she seemed to seek out the bruises on his ribs from the morning's training. Giving in, he buried his fingers in her thick plush fur, massaging behind her ears. Artemis closed her eyes in bliss, sighing in contentment.

"You're getting far too large," Timothy sighed, "but you're so beautiful."

Softly huffing, Artemis nudged his bruises again.

"ARTEMIS," Carrow's rumbling bellow drifted into the boardroom.

Artemis's large head swivelled round, ears twitching. With a rush, she pushed away from the table, nearly knocking Timothy's chair over as she stormed out of the room in search of her daddy.

"She's getting far too large," Maria Curtis sighed, obviously exasperated as she strode into the boardroom, "and the problems I'm having with tiger hair on my clothes…" She swiped at the legs of her smart trousers.

"Tell me about it," Timothy grumbled as he neatly stacked notes and reports, "all my clothes are black and it's like she knows."

"Cats! Just typical, doesn't seem to matter the size either," Curtis said as she tidied up her own stack of folders, "have you er…been into town recently…"

Timothy gave her a smile that was more of a grimace, "yes, about that…"

. .oOo.

Now he'd called this very informal and extremely unofficial meeting he wasn't sure where to start, Timothy rubbed at his right eye socket, the newly healed skin still sensitive, itching under his eye patch. And he had to admit as sneaked a glance round the small grove of potted palms they were currently sitting in, he wasn't entirely sure which bit of the original office they were in. Was this a new expansion into the rest of the floor or was this in fact an expanded cupboard…

"This is very nice and all that," Slyte took a sip of her mug of tea, "but there's quite a stack of paperwork awaiting my attentions at the moment…" she gave him a meaningful look, Curtis apparently in full agreement.

Timothy sighed, no point beating around the bush then, "Godric's Hollow…we need to do something about it, legally, to protect it…"

Clarrisa Slyte, Maria Curtis and Percy all exchanged looks.

"The town desperately needs some sort of…unofficial…official DMLE that liaise directly with the local police," Timothy continued hoping they would understand, "things are getting…complicated, what with our unique blend of magical and non-magical, but it means that currently there aren't any sorts of controls in place to keep people safe."

"Complicated," Percy said slowly, "that's one way of looking at it. I bought a small house in the Hollow last year thinking I'd have to pretend to be muggle, that is until the neighbours on one side had a screaming match with their daughter about her getting stuck with rabbit ears on a school night." He sighed heavily. "And the neighbour on the other side…I think they work for the R&D department, because there's always coloured smoke drifting out of their kitchen window, clearly magical, in the middle of the day, and nobody seems to care."

He shrugged in obvious frustration, "I gave up after that. It was too much effort."

"Coloured smoke drifting out the window?" Slyte gave him a dubious look.

"See, this is exactly what I'm talking about," Timothy pounced on the straw Percy had offered him, "that is clearly a safety hazard, who know what's in that smoke. They need a properly ventilated work area so they don't poison themselves and the entire neighbourhood."

"So," Slyte put her mug down, "how do you plan to go ahead with this…do remember that we have that educational reform bill to put through too. Mr Carrow is relying on us to further his work."

"So we'll slip the law enforcement items for the Hollow past under the educational bill," Percy suggested.

Timothy thought about it for a moment. "That could work…maybe have a chat with Madam Bones. See if we can do some sort of deal with the DMLE…"

"Isn't this just the thin end of the wedge?" Slyte said, giving him a piercing look. "'It's not just a discrete law enforcement body that Godric's Hollow needs, it's all the regulations and standards and…"

"We're going to have gradually implement all of Carrow's blasted constitution, discretely…in the background, and hope people don't look too hard, because if they do…" He slumped down in his seat. "There are times when I really wish I was still cleaning toilets," he muttered to himself.

Percy gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

. .oOo.

It was as if his Godfather was attempting to live inside the Sun, Carrow thought as he ducked through the front door of No.12 Grimmauld Place, Charles and Edwin following him behind. The man seemed to be obsessed with light; he glared at the sparkling chandelier as he dodged around it. It was, he supposed, understandable, given Azkaban wasn't exactly known for the brightness and airiness of its cells; and so now Sirius Black was overcompensating.

He watched as his Godfather greeted another guest, Madam Longbottom, with a rather strained smile. "…nice of you to come. My house-elf has laid on refreshments in the living room."

"Marvellous," Madam Longbottom said, "and I hope you're keeping out of trouble?"

Sirius seemed to shrink down into his robes. "Well, yes. Of course I am. I'm a reformed character, I'll have you know."

Madam Longbottom gave him a disbelieving sniff. "Are the others all ready here?" she asked.

"Yup. Already in the living room…I recommend the lemon drizzle cake, by the way," he called after the older lady, as she strolled further into the house.

Carrow grinned down at the smaller man as he turned round. "Oh no! It's you!" Sirius squawked, leaping back dramatically.

"But of course," Carrow's grin broadened, "who else would I be?"

Sirius laughed sarcastically as the vampires made their presence known.

"My goodness me," Charles exclaimed, "the _Snack!_ "

"As I live and breathe," Edwin clasped his hands dramatically to his chest, "he survived. Freedom seems to be suiting you well."

"Yes, yes, it's good to see you both too," Sirius grimaced as he put up with the friendly jostling and back pats. "So…the Headmaster invited you to his little shindig."

"Indeed," Carrow said, "I hadn't realised that the Headmaster was such a social creature."

Sirius laughed nervously. "Well, you know," he shrugged, "when you're surrounded by children all day, must be nice to get some adult company occasionally."

A little bored at the forced socialising, Carrow glanced round, his eyes widening minutely as he took in one of the paintings hanging on the wall. It was nice to know when a gift was appreciated.

"Heh, you know I never did thank you properly," Sirius said.

Carrow gave him a quizzical look.

"About Weasley's Wizard Wheezes," Sirius grinned up at him bouncing on his heels, "we've been mainly doing business by owl post while they finish off their education, though this year of course I've got more opportunities to go up to Hogwarts and that…well, we're planning on opening the shop next summer, just in time to catch the Hogwarts trade. Should be good," his grin broadened to almost manic proportions, "we've found a prime location and everything on Diagon Alley, with a flat above so the lads are going to…"

" _Cooee_ ," a shrill female voice called out.

Sirius's face fell. "Merlin's saggy balls," he groaned hurrying forward, "bloody old hag," he muttered, as he attempted to pull the velvet curtain back in front of his mother's portrait, "always pick your moments don't you?"

Watching in bemusement, Carrow couldn't help but notice that the frothing lacy and heavily corseted dress that Mrs Black was attired in would have been quite lovely on someone eighty years her junior, and her approach to face paint reminded him heavily of one world he'd visited (thankfully briefly) where the ruling classes had adorned their faces with patterns and colours as part of a rigid system of rules denoting season, circumstances and mood. It had been very annoying, and very garish.

"Come on," Sirius bellowed, "just this once, you spiteful old cow. You can moon over your bloody boyfriend later."

"Hateful hippo-dropping of my loins," Mrs Black snarled in her son's face before peering over his shoulder, fluttering her eyelashes with a sickly smile as she waggled her fingers in greeting.

Carrow followed her line of sight. It was nice to see that Brother Librarian Octavius was stalwart in the face of her flirtations.

.oOo.

"…now we're all here," Headmaster Dumbledore beamed happily around the hodge-podge gathering from his place on the sofa, "we can finally get down to business."

Carrow narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. The Headmaster had been unusually opaque about the reasons for this meeting, downright evasive in fact. No matter, his mole in the Headmaster's little political group was present as were Alastor Moody and Severus Snape, though he couldn't help but notice that the Potions Master was looking a little pale, even for him, ashen even.

He was sure with a little prompting he could get a fuller picture of Headmaster Dumbledore's thinking on this occasion.

"As some of you aware, Voldemort…"

Most of the people in the room gasped in horror. Carrow rolled his eyes in exasperation. For Throne's sake, these people were so embarrassingly sheltered from reality.

"Yes, _Voldemort_ ," the Headmaster continued, "is not only not deceased, but has regained a…how should I put this…a physical form?" He frowned thoughtfully at Carrow.

"Precisely what is this gathering in aid of?" Carrow asked.

"Oh, didn't I say?" Dumbledore said.

Carrow gave him an unimpressed stare, waiting for the Headmaster to get to some sort of point.

"During the last war, a group of us decided enough was enough and got together to help the fight against Voldemort in any way we could," Dumbledore said brightly, "those of us here are what is left of the Order of Phoenix, with a few new faces, of course." He smiled at the young lady with violently pink hair. To Carrow's vexation, her hair shifted and deepened to a vivid crimson as her face flushed unnaturally, the colour disappearing as quickly as it appeared.

A secret society with vigilante tendencies meddling in things they shouldn't; just typical, Carrow scowled to himself. This needed shutting down fast, before these idiots managed to get themselves hurt.

"This…Dark Lord of yours has indeed returned. His new form, such as it is," Carrow looked around the gathering with narrowed eyes, "is not human and is extremely dangerous both physically…and spiritually."

"Well," Dumbledore smiled cheerfully into the fraught silence that had descended on the gathering, "let us discuss the first item of business shall we…guard duty at the Department of Mysteries."

"Guard duty" Carrow boomed, "guarding what from whom?"

"Didn't your young friends inform you?" Dumbledore gave Moody and Snape a pointed look as the two men suddenly found the floor, the ceiling, a nearby piece of driftwood wrapped in twinkling lights, incredibly interesting.

"I would like to hear it from you," Carrow said, locking eyes with the Headmaster.

Dumbledore's lips almost twitched in amusement. "Hmm, I see. Well then…we are currently guarding an item within the Department of Mysteries that Voldemort…"

Most of the room gave a collective twitch.

"…has certainly in the past greatly desired, a prophecy pertaining to himself…and you." Dumbledore sighed heavily. "It is a heavy burden that I…"

"A prophecy," Carrow growled, blue sparks of warp light beginning to shimmer around his eyes, "why was I not informed of this at the first possible moment. Throne cursed things. Where is it stored? How is it stored? Who may access it? I need to know _now_."

"Really Mr Carrow," one of the older ladies gasped in alarm.

Carrow ignored her, his glare boring into Dumbledore.

Eventually, with some careful questioning, Dumbledore confessed everything, leaving Carrow grinding his teeth in frustration. A small globe, that was all it was. He could have dealt with this over a year ago.

"I doubt even now, if there's anything of him left," Dumbledore continued explaining, "that he'd feel any less interested in it. If not him, then his…new allies maybe…"

"Pray they are not," Carrow closed his eyes and said a small prayer in an effort to calm himself. These people…by the God-Emperor, they were a danger to themselves and each other. "If he, this Dark Lord, comes for this…this prophecy, in his current state, not only would your _guard_ not survive, nor would the Ministry itself. That is the truth of the situation."

The room froze in horror for a moment.

"Surely you're joking, the _entire_ Ministry," Emelline Vance laughed hysterically. She jerked back as Carrow turned his attention to her. "We'd at least be able to get a warning off…wouldn't we?" she almost begged.

"No, you would not." Carrow sighed internally. The sheer naïve optimism and ignorance of these people would never cease to amaze him. They were so totally unaware of just how much danger they were truly in.

"The _only_ way you would be able to get a message off in such a situation would be if you had a method that, on the event of the guard's death, sent a pre-determined signal. Even then, there's no guarantee that it wouldn't be intercepted in some manner, stopped in its tracks, or warped and altered to some new and unwholesome purpose."

The gathered Order stared at him in silent horror.

He sighed heavily. "I will retrieve this prophecy myself." If only to save these innocents from their ignorance, he thought. The God-Emperor's duty never ended.

"If you are sure…" Dumbledore asked, his smile serious.

Carrow gave him a curt nod.

"Severus?" the Headmaster turned his attention to Snape who was sitting slumped, head down clasping his left arm tightly.

"Has Voldemort summoned you to his side?" Dumbledore asked.

Uncomfortable at the question and the sudden attention, Severus swallowed, painfully gripping his left forearm tightly. "No…no, he has not."

"If he does, do not respond," Carrow said sharply.

"If I don't, I will die," Severus rasped. "I have no choice, unless I wish a slow and agonising death."

"You will not go," Carrow growled.

Severus opened his mouth, in protest perhaps, Carrow wasn't sure as he held up a hand. "I understand that you acted as a spy prior to his untimely de-corporalisation, but this time is different. If you go to his side, wherever he is, you will not return. Maybe something that looks like you will return, but it will not be you."

Severus subsided, his expression blank, dark eyes feverish.

"Come to me and I will ensure your safety," Carrow said firmly.

"Truly?" Severus whispered.

"Yes," Carrow said with absolute certainty, "this will not be a repeat of the conflict which you all lived through; your Dark Lord has new allies now. Genuinely dangerous ones."

"The old ones were pretty bloody dangerous too," someone muttered darkly.

"Except they're all dead now," Moody gave them all a nasty grin, "just two left. Severus here, and Igor Karkaroff, and I don't expect to see that yellow-bellied coward outside the confines of Durmstrang's wards for the rest of his natural life. As for Severus…" he looked at his now friend, "he was never truly one of them, despite his carrying the Mark."

"The Mark?" Carrow frowned.

"You-Know-Who marked all his followers…"

Snape made a strangled sound clutching his left forearm as he slipped bonelessly from his chair, eyes rolling back in his head as his limbs twitched spasmodically, people leaping to their feet in concern. Carrow watched over their heads in interest as they crowded round the fallen man.

"Professor Snape! Are you all right?" the pink haired woman exclaimed as she knelt by him wand drawn obviously unsure of what to do.

"It appears to be an epileptic fit of some kind," Carrow commented, his voice carrying over the general distress. "Not much to be done except make sure he doesn't injure himself. Look lively," he growled when they turned and stared at him cow-like, "keep his head away from that chair leg."

The spasms began to die down leaving Snape limp and shaken where he lay on the floor, far too exhausted to snarl at his concerned audience.

That alone was enough to cause Carrow some concern. "Your mark," he demanded. Snape sullenly pulled his sleeve up revealing his bandaged forearm for examination.

"A direct link?" Carrow growled as he closely examined the swollen angry mess that was Snape's forearm. The dark mark stood out starkly against the angry red flesh. Directly around the mark itself was a pale yellow area that constantly weeped fluid, and the smell…Carrow sniffed the air delicately. Yes, the smell of taint was faint but highly distinctive, sweet and rotten and foul.

"Nothing I do seems to work," Snape said his voice shaking slightly as Carrow gently traced a red tendril of infection that seemed to be working its way up his arm. "I've tried everything, balms and salves, potions and ointments, even Phoenix tears but it only seems to be keeping it from spreading..." he looked up, raw fear in his eyes.

"They won't work," Carrow said with utter finality as he dropped the smaller man's arm. "We need to go now," he surged to his feet ushering Snape in front of him as he made for the door.

"What are you doing?!" Snape snarled his voice carrying over the surprised and outraged shouts of the rest of the so-called Order of the Phoenix.

Carrow ignored his protest as he pushed the man out of the door. "I'm saving your life," he growled as he grabbed Snape's arm and physically dragged him to the front door, "you are linked on the ethereal plane to a being that is now little more than a plaything for a daemon. Can you not see the urgency of the situation?"

Snape's protests trailed off and he finally stopped struggling. "A daemon," he whispered.

Carrow looked down to find Snape staring back up at him, face pale as a ghost, dark eyes desperate and haunted. "Have faith little one," Carrow said as he pushed Snape out of the front door.


	3. Chapter 3

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

 _I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

* * *

Chapter 3

The Giant Lump was practically dragging him as he marched down barren corridors underneath the Potter family home he hadn't even known existed, or maybe he was still disoriented from Carrow's unique form of fast-travel. Snape could quite happily say he never wanted to do _that_ again.

Just what was Carrow up to, and could he stop him? A sharp jab of pain ran up his left arm, the Dark Mark itching non-stop, a blazing patch of heat on his arm…but if Carrow knew of some way to get rid of the bloody thing, then he was all for it. Hell, at this point he'd chop his own arm off if he thought it would work.

Of course, it wouldn't. There'd been that nasty occurrence when some poor lug had been blackmailed into taking the mark, John something. Blast his memory for playing tricks on him. John Definitely-A-Hufflepuff Something, had hacked his own arm off in a desperate attempt to escape the Death Eaters. He'd died within days as his body busily destroyed itself…and then the Death Eaters had descended on his poor bereaved family and butchered them. There were times when he really hated his life…

Carrow was now pushing him through double doors, the self-closing kind so common in muggle buildings and into a warm and stuffy corridor that was as cluttered as the others had been empty. There was something wrong with the lighting as well, too bright, he squinted, and why did everything seem to have rainbow auras? It was more than a little disturbing, and that's before he got onto the actual clutter itself.

He stared in disbelief at an office chair that had been oddly modified with bits of wood, a shoe box and a small cube of granite incised with runes. Someone had even scratched runes into the plastic edging of the seat. There was a plaque on the wall above it, but Carrow pulled him past before he could catch more than a glimpse.

It was strange, Snape thought, the closer they got to the doors at the end of the corridor; the more oppressive the heat, the harder it was to breath, the more painfully bright the lights. If Carrow hadn't got a good hold of him he'd have stumbled over his own feet by now and fallen face first into the junk that littered the place, and that would just be embarrassing, wouldn't it?

Somebody had drawn symbols on the floor, a mad flurry of something that looked almost like really advanced Arithmancy but not quite. He even recognised a few of the symbols…maybe. The iron grip on his arm towed him past before he could really make his mind up, his left arm now just a burning throbbing ache that pulsed in sympathy as Carrow rapped sharply on the door before unceremoniously flinging it open, dragging him through into the room beyond, a laboratory, he thought…or he supposed this was what a muggle laboratory looked like.

Dazed, his head swimming, Snape gazed around at the strange boxy equipment that lined the walls, small lights blinking on some of them, a computer screen displaying tables of numbers, more things he couldn't even begin to guess at the purpose of, the largest office chair he'd ever seen in his life. It would fit Carrow easily; he looked up, to point this out to the annoying man…

"My Lord," Carrow boomed, actually bowing.

Snape stared up at him in stunned amazement. Carrow, submitting to another? How utterly bizarre; he was definitely hallucinating. He'd obviously accidentally ingested an experimental potion again, and this was all some weird fabrication of some feverish and warped part of his mind.

"Hello, Xander," came an unfamiliar voice, as deep as Carrow's, but with a warmth his never had.

Snape tried to squint past the fuzziness as a large figure stepped into view clad in a long white coat, jeans and a violently yellow t-shirt. The t-shirt had a cat with its paws up on the front with a speech bubble proclaiming _I surrender._ Snape blinked in bewilderment, wincing as the yellow seamed to smear and shimmer in the harsh lighting.

"My Lord," Snape winced as Carrow pulled him forward yanking his left sleeve up, "we have a problem."

"Oh!" this new person, Carrow's "Lord" exclaimed. Large brown hands gently took his own, stripping the dressing off the oozing Dark Mark. The arm throbbed and hummed with pain and Snape gritted his teeth as his vision began to grey around the edges.

Carrow's "Lord" looked at him in concern, giving Snape an impression of an olive complexion, a beaky nose and strong cheek bones, all framed by black locks. It was almost as if the man's hair couldn't quite make its mind up whether it wanted to be curly or wavy, and had gone for some sort of unsatisfactory intermediate state instead…but his eyes…

Snape looked away feeling dazzled, sun-blind as the man gave him a friendly smile flashing strong white teeth. To his bemusement, Carrow's Lord had a distinct gap between his top middle incisors. It seemed oddly human on such an un-Earthly being.

"This is the mark of the Dark Lord you've been telling me about, isn't it?"

Carrow rumbled something in reply but Snape lost it in among the wave of pain that clawed its way up his arm. He groaned under his breath, clenching his right hand so hard he could feel his nails cutting into the palm.

"…connection, the magic linking the two, but…"

.oOo.

"What?" Snape exclaimed as he opened his eyes to find himself looking at the distressingly familiar sight of the Hospital Wing ceiling. How in Merlin's name had he landed up here? There had been that ridiculous meeting at _Black's_ house…and then Carrow had physically dragged him away because…

He sat bolt upright frantically scrabbling at the sleeve of the sensible grey flannel pyjamas he'd been dressed in to find his left arm…

Snape stared at his forearm in wonder; was he dreaming? He hesitantly touched the pale unremarkable skin as if it might disintegrate back into the oozing mess it had become. It hadn't looked this perfect since his teens.

Beyond the privacy of the curtains that had been drawn around his bed, he could hear the distinct and familiar tapping of Poppy's shoes as she moved down the Infirmary, no doubt to come and harass him, followed by…

"Oh bugger," he swore under his breath as he scrabbled back under the covers. The last person he wanted to see right now was Dumbledore, maybe if he pretended sleep…

"I know you're awake, Severus," Poppy said as she swished the curtains aside, "so you can stop with the act."

Severus gave her a nasty glare, folding his arms over his chest, but she just gave him an indulgent smirk as the Headmaster stepped into view smiling like a sunny summer morning.

"My, Severus, you are looking so much more the thing," the Headmaster gave him a delighted smile. Snape glared at him suspiciously, the man was blatantly up to no good.

"Obviously Allesandor really did know what he was about no matter how alarming it initially appeared," Dumbledore carried on, "are you up to visitors?"

Before Snape could object and insist that no he damn well wasn't up to visitors of any kind especially since he hadn't had any coffee yet, Poppy pounced, casting a series of diagnostic charms that left him tingling and breathless as if he'd rolled in nettles.

"Alastor…Molly, Arthur…" Snape heard the Headmaster call but all he could manage was a choked protest as Poppy fussed with his pillows demanding he sit more upright.

"Are you going down with a cold?" she asked suspiciously.

"What?!" he managed to splutter. "No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous," he protested as he tried to slink off the other side of the bed, but Poppy was wise to his tactics and stuck him firmly to the bed.

"Oh Severus, we've been so worried about you," a rather blotchy looking Molly Weasley burst through the curtains closely followed by a concerned looking Arthur and Alastor stumping along on his wooden leg looking more grim than usual. "You've been looking so peaky lately and then this happens!"

Snape could only manage a muffled yelp as Molly flung her arms around him clasping him to her ample bosom. It was terrifying. He couldn't breath, he couldn't see, the crushing pressure. He could see it now, the light at the end of the tunnel. After having survived a terrible childhood, the Death Eaters and even the Dark Lord himself, all those curses, the insane dark creatures, even the fume-mad rival brewers, this was it…he was going to suffer the ignoble fate of being smothered to death by giant mammaries.

"Help," he managed to gasp out through the dark crushing pressure.

"Erm, Molly," he faintly heard through the rushing of blood in his ears, "don't you think you should let poor Severus breath now? He has had rather a shock to the system."

Molly reluctantly let go. Snape desperately sucked in precious air, wishing for the umpteenth time that he was alone, not being smirked at by so called friends; he gave Alastor a nasty glare.

Beyond him stood Dumbledore, who looked like he was having a certain amount of trouble containing his laughter. It was at times like this he had great difficulties deciding who was more evil and twisted; the Dark Lord or the Headmaster? It really was a close run thing.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

" _Leeds?_ What the hell are we doing in _Leeds_? This must be the most unmagical place I've ever seen in my life," Auror Hewitt grumbled in disgust as he glared around at the rundown triangle of ground tucked between the railway raised up on a viaduct and a series of derelict Victorian industrial buildings. The whole area was a sea of dirty red brick and cracked concrete as far as the eye could see, the sky above a miserable grey, the promise of an early autumn in the air.

Which, of course, would be why it would be such a perfect place to set up an illicit potions lab; that bit of McGuire's memories had made sense. Timothy glared at the back of Auror Hewitt's head. How had the man got to the position he had, given that he had all the imagination of a soggy cabbage. It was a mystery.

A train rattled past above, a two carriage affair, something small and local and slightly grimy; probably an afternoon commuter train.

"Don't even know why you lot are here," Auror Hewitt glared at Timothy getting right up into his face, "you'd better not pull a stunt like last time, muggle weapons and stuff." He glared at Chuddy, who was holding his Solaris energy rifle at the ready. "You're just a bunch of civilians, muggles too," he sneered at Chuddy and the others, "get in our way and I'll have you all banned and obliviated. Shouldn't be too hard." He flounced off.

"What an arse-hole," Athena said slightly too loudly.

"Totally," Chuddy muttered.

"Do we get to move in yet?" Juno asked.

"Before _they_ lose the element of surprise," Athena added.

Timothy sighed heavily, this was going to be a long day, he could just tell.

"Are we taking bets on how badly they mess up now?" Juno enquired.

"Two beers says they let some of these idiots escape," Chuddy said.

"Right you lot," Timothy gave them a disapproving glare, "we're going in through the back." He stalked off, his underlings following him like little ducklings past the sullen and suspicious Auror team.

"That looks brand new," Chuddy commented when they arrived at their destination several streets away. Timothy had to admit the relatively new steel reinforced door did look rather incongruous in comparison to the shabby derelict nature of the rest of the building. It looked as if someone had made an attempt to make the run-down building more secure. Shame they'd installed it with the hinges on the outside.

"Blasting hex?" Athena asked hopefully.

"Or we could try out some of R&D's new gadgets. A little more discreet I think," Timothy said as he checked his Browning one more time, "Chuddy, if you would."

Chuddy sidled up to the door with a smirk, pulling a couple of small packages out of a pouch on his assault vest. Stripping their backing off, he carefully moulded them over the exposed hinges, pressed the activation buttons and scuttled back round the corner to join them.

A muffled whoomph echoed around the narrow back street a moment later.

" _Now_ ," Timothy snapped charging round the corner his gun held at the ready. The mouldable explosives seemed to have turned the door and part of the wall into gravel which was now slewed across the cracked tarmac of the pavement. Ploughing through it, Timothy dived into the space beyond, blinking rapidly as his eye adjusted to the gloomy interior.

Movement loomed up in his right, and startled, he spun round, the Browning barking in his hands before he could even think. The man in dingy grey robes slumped to the floor clutching at his chest. Timothy shot him in the head for good measure, stepping over the body. He paused mid-stride with a frown.

"Looks like a prison tattoo," Juno helpfully commented, as Timothy crouched down to more closely examine the marking on the webbing between forefinger and thumb of the dead man's hand.

The mark of Saturn had been crudely executed with black ink. "And a needle…or maybe a quill if he was really desperate," Timothy muttered to himself.

"Can we bloody get on with it," Chuddy hissed, " _before_ we get ambushed. Pretty please."

"Yes, yes of course," Timothy shook himself from his thoughts. Beyond was a door, and to the left the foot of a crummy looking stairs, which reached up into the dusty gloomy space above.

On the other side of the door, the shouts and bellowed commands of the Auror team could be clearly heard.

"We go up," Timothy muttered to Wulfric and Juno. They nodded grimly, and to his indignation, slipped past him taking point. "I'm not delicate you know," he grumbled as he followed them.

Chuddy sniggered quietly behind him, a clattering echoing up the stairwell as Bradley stumbled on the stairs. Timothy ignored it; the lad was still rather clumsy, but he was improving by leaps and bounds. It seemed to be a confidence thing.

The stairs curled round on itself in a series of dog-legs making the journey upwards nerve wracking as they sidled upwards as quickly and quietly as they could. The next floor appeared to be abandoned, the door long missing, revealing a rubbish strewn empty space coated in dust. Pigeons had got in at some point, and now a little row of them sat on the remains of a shelf, watching the invaders suspiciously.

"Nothing here but psiticosis," Chuddy muttered, eyeing the pigeons suspiciously.

"They're pigeons," Juno sighed as they advanced further up the stairs, "psiticosis is parrots."

"And that's only if you lick the bottom of the cage or breath their shit in," Athena added with a grin. Chuddy groaned in disgust.

"Focus, people," Timothy growled.

The next floor proved to be considerably more exciting. He could almost sense something, a tickling on the edge of his senses which had him so distracted he nearly took a blasting hex to the head. Fortunately, Juno knocked into him from behind, shoving him down onto the stairs, allowing the hex to sail harmlessly over their heads and crash into the wall beyond. Timothy had a feeling that if the building hadn't been structurally unsound before, it was certainly going to be when they'd finished with it.

Chuddy shot the idiot several times, Wulfric sending a slew of curses through the doorway beyond his slumping corpse. Considering the screams and shouts, they obviously found their targets.

Wulfric seized his opportunity, and dived through the door, Chuddy close behind him. Heaving up off the stairs, Timothy stumbled after them as quickly as he could, Browning at the ready. The room beyond was disappointing; other than the newly deceased bodies, it was as scruffy and unremarkable as the rest of the place, except someone had taken the time to haul half a dozen tubular steel and plastic chairs up here along with, for some strange reason, a pool table.

"That must have been a right sod to get up here," Athena nodded towards it, as they carefully looked round.

"Is it worth going further up?" Bradely asked. "Look," he pointed nervously to several holes in the ceiling which clearly went through to the very top floor above.

"Yes. We're doing this properly, by the book," Timothy said, jaw set grimly as he headed back to the stairway.

"More bloody pigeons," Chuddy muttered.

oOo

They were nearly off the stairs when the two people in beige over-robes stampeded past, shouts of _freeze_ and _stop_ chasing after them as some of the Auror team gave chase. The two were so intent on escape that they only flinched and ducked at the gunfire that splashed around them as they dived out of the ruined remains of the back-door.

"After them," Timothy roared as he leapt down the last few steps barrelling through after them. But the escapees were fitter than they looked, and had already made it to the corner of the narrow back-road. Snarling under his breath, Timothy sprinted after them, great coat flaring dramatically around him. He was nearly to the corner when he heard a double pop as the two apparated away.

Swearing, he skidded around the corner to find…nothing. The narrow little street was empty other than an abandoned car further up, its tyres sadly deflated, leaving it sitting on the road on its wheel rims.

"Well, bloody…" he growled wordlessly to himself, as he kicked a stone in frustration. There was nothing to be done, unless Auror Hewitt had some specialists who could actually trace apparition signatures, but he doubted it. Fuming gently, he made his way back to the old warehouse.

"…and stay over there, before I have you thrown out, you bunch of stupid muggles," Auror Hewitt's voice filtered through to the dilapidated stairwell. Timothy bristled in outrage.

"…bet you don't even know what a crime scene is, considering the number you've trampled all over," Hewitt was laughing now as Timothy strode through into what had evidently been used as a storage area with a promising looking office bit off to the side.

"…barely stand upright, bunch of magic-less idiots…"

Sneering, Timothy stalked forward until he was right up in Auror Hewitt's face. "How dare you talk to my people like that," he hissed, "they are highly trained professionals and deserve your respect and consideration…and really Auror Hewitt, anti-muggle prejudice? I would have thought that with your much vaunted experience, you would be well aware of the complexities of the non-magical world. Well?"

Glowering nastily, Auror Hewitt tried to back away by Timothy followed him. "Complex , the muggle world? Are you having a laugh? They're all just a bunch of violence obsessed…murdering…"

"Careful," Timothy narrowed his eye, "wouldn't want people to think you're prejudiced against the non-magical."

Auror Hewitt ground his teeth, his face flushing darker with repressed rage. "You think you're so bloody special, don't you. Well, the only thing special about you is that bloody half-giant that you spend most of your time hiding behind. Without him, you're just some jumped up little muggle-born."

"I don't care what you think of me," Timothy growled, "I can assure you I've heard it all before," he smiled nastily, enjoying Auror Hewitt's flinch, "but I do object when idiots get in the way of my work. Wulfric, take Chuddy and Bradely and collect any paperwork, documents, journals, everything written, I don't care how trivial. Box it all up, we're taking it with us."

Behind him, he heard Wulfric and the others running to comply.

"They can't do that," Auror Hewitt snarled, utterly incensed, "stop them. This is a crime scene. You don't have the authority to do this!"

Timothy looked at the man as if he'd gone mad. "I am the Acting Senior Under-Secretary, personal secretary to the Senior Under-secretary. I can assure you I most certainly do have the authority. Wulfric," he added, "if any one tries stopping you or interfering in any way, _deal_ with them in any way you see fit."

"Now," he turned stalking away, Juno and Athena falling in behind him, "I'm going to inspect the basement."

"Basement?" Auror Hewitt stormed after him, "there's no basement," he snapped, sounding rather desperate as he tried barging in front. Timothy ignored him, shoving him out of the way as he made straight for where McGuire's memories clearly informed him the stairs should be. Another member of the Auror team tried blocking is way, but a snarl and a mental shove got rid of them. He trotted down the steep brick steps, careful of their worn condition, slowing as he reached the bottom.

He wasn't entirely sure how he knew but there were living beings down here, and not the Auror team either. He put the Browning at the ready, cautiously easing forward. Now, what would Carrow do? Why the heck was he even thinking that? Carrow would likely do something outrageous resulting in piles of bodies.

The stairs led onto a narrow barrel vaulted corridor, along which were several rooms, some of which appeared to be more offices, no doubt stuffed with more useful information and data. More important stuff he could quite legitimately lift from the DMLE team.

"You want us to clear them out, sir?" Juno asked, obviously not overly thrilled at the prospect.

"Yes, in a moment, but first…the main lab should be along here." Timothy carried on down the passage to where it widened out into the laboratory proper. It was as terrible as he suspected. Along one wall was a row of cages, the sort more commonly used for housing large dogs, but in this case currently housing people.

Some of them were even still alive, though Timothy was pretty certain that they wished they weren't. He'd seen more than a few horrendous things thanks to Carrow, but this was definitely vying for top place. It wasn't that it was the most horrific, it certainly wasn't, it was more…it was so obvious, as he stood here, that these people had been caught and caged and examined and experimented on by other people, who'd then looked at their results before deciding to do even more experiments in a very deliberate and thoughtful way. Was he over-thinking this?

He swallowed thickly around the nausea that was trying to rise up, trying desperately to suppress his gag reflex. It would be so easy to just pull out his wand and cast a few cleaning and air-freshening charms. It would be a relief, but the Auror team _needed_ to see this.

Behind him, just for once Athena had found something even her strong stomach couldn't handle considering the retching noises. Timothy ignored her as he worked his way along the filth encrusted cages. The first couple appeared to be empty and had been given the most cursory of cleans. Mum would definitely not approve of such slovenly work.

The next one…he wasn't sure. There was certainly something or someone in there but it, he…she was curled on their side and so encrusted with dirt that it was difficult to tell. He could just make out the sharp angle of a hip bone jutting up, a row of vertebrae, painfully exposed ribs and oddly jointed limbs. There was no way knees should be able to bend like that.

Was this sorry individual still breathing? In the poor light it was hard to tell. Had their chest moved just then, or had he imagined it in the poor light?

In the next cage the occupant was most definitely dead, their eyes cloudy and half opened in their sunken emaciated face, that was framed by a set of curling horns.

Precisely what were McGuire's little friends trying to achieve here? Didn't they understand the need to feed people and keep them clean and warm and hydrated? And basically ask their permission first before doing major life-changing alterations to their bodies? Wouldn't these conditions have a negative impact on whatever it was that they were trying to achieve here?

Several more cages filled with human horror, either dead or not far from it.

The terrified eyes stared out at him from beneath the wild matted hair of the figure hunched awkwardly at the back of the cage.

"Hello?" Timothy tried, stepping forward.

The figure recoiled so hard its head hit the back wall of the cage with a clonk and a rattle as their limbs trembled uncontrollably.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he tried gentling his voice, "myself and my team, we're here with Aurors from the DMLE…to rescue you." But it didn't seem to work, the person so traumatised that any approach was terrifying.

"Hey," a hoarse whisper came from further along the cages. Timothy looked round; had someone actually managed to survive this hellish situation with their wits intact?

"Hey…hello?" the voice came again.

"Hi," Juno said as she walked past, slowly approaching the cage at the far end, "who are you?"

"I, err... I, umm…"

Timothy approached to find a person hunched at the front of the cage, fingers hooked through the wire bars, a woman he suspected, given the lightness of her voice, her red eyes wide and desperate.

"I…I…all I wanted was a job," her voice cracked into a sob.

"And they, whoever they are, tricked you into this miserable hell-hole," Juno gave her a sympathetic smile, "let's get you out of here. My mum has a cage like this for her Alsatian to sleep in…" She jiggled the latch on the cage. It stubbornly stayed locked.

"I've tried that," the young woman said helpfully, "it's a simple locking charm. If I had my wand…" she shrugged helplessly.

"Bloody magic," Athena growled.

"There's always some way round these things," Juno muttered as she examined the cage carefully, "here, help me pull this thing out," she grunted as she attempted to pull the entire cage, captive and all, away from the wall. Athena grabbed an encrusted edge and hauled. "When this is over, I'm going to bleach my hands."

Timothy watched feeling very much like a spare part as the two ladies hauled the cage free and into the middle of the room. Juno fiddled with the top before crying out in triumph as she lifted up the entire top.

"What?!" the prisoner looked up in stunned amazement.

"Yup," Juno smiled as she and Athena hauled the ex-prisoner up and out "these sorts of cages are designed to fold flat, for ease of storage, and erm, _cleaning_." She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the filthy cage.

Spring his chance to be useful Timothy cast a few cleaning charms at the young woman, handing over his great coat. "Here," he said, "your need is…"

" _What do you think you're doing?_ " Auror Hewitt bellowed as he strode into the laboratory. The prisoner visibly cowered at the large man's presence, slipping on trembling legs behind Juno for protection.

"What does it look like I'm doing," Timothy hissed crowding into Auror Hewitt's personal space, "my job."

"You can't just start freeing these people like that," Hewitt carried on, "they need taking into custody and questioning. Don't for a second think…"

Timothy span on his heel. "Young lady, you mentioned needing a job earlier and I just so happen to require an assistant, so you now work for me. I need all the paperwork, documents, anything written at all, on this floor collected on boxed up. Juno, if you would, please."

"Hey, stop," Auror Hewitt tried to obstruct their way actually looking slightly desperate now.

"Auror Hewitt, are you trying to obstruct the work of a Ministry Official?" Timothy snarled at the man.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Auror Hewitt backed down.

"Oh, and I would get the remaining prisoners here to St Mungo's. They look in dire need of medical attention," he threw over his shoulder as he stalked past.

The rest of the Auror team, some looking slightly singed, practically leapt out of their way as they started work on the office areas. What was the DMLE employing nowadays? Honestly, talk about spineless. Maybe he should bring this up with Carrow.

. .oOo.

The ceiling of the Great Hall was dark with clouds when they entered for the Welcoming Feast, a promise of rain in the air, the gloom only relieved by the multitude of candles that hung above the table doing their best to make up for the lack of stars.

"Looks like a muddy run tomorrow morning," Ron shouted above the noise of the other students as they milled around catching up with friends and finding their favourite spots at the House Tables.

Hermione gave the ceiling a distracted glance, tugging at the slim thread-covered braid that was the only remainder of her previously long hair. "Probably," she said, "new recruits this week as well. Wonder what we'll get?"

"We didn't exactly get many takers last year," Ron sighed, "bloody rest of the school must have scared them off…except Luna Lovegood…and, err…"

"She didn't seem to realise what she was getting herself into," Hermione said, "maybe we'll be able to persuade Dennis this year."

"Oh yeah…is he old enough yet? I thought he was starting his second year." Ron winced. "He won't be upset about his brother, do you think?"

Hermione gave him a funny look as they found places at the Gryffindor table. "Seriously, Ron," Hermione shook her head sadly, "the way that pair are, he probably thinks it's the best thing ever, and could you do it to him too, so he can have a matching scar."

"HEY!" An angry voice exploded next to them. "They can't sit here!"

The Defence Club whirled round, reaching for weapons that weren't there, to find Seamus Finnegan glaring at them.

"Hello, Seamus," Ron gave his fellow Gryffindor a nervous smile, "had a nice summer?"

Seamus glared at him. " _They're_ not Gryffindors," he snarled, jabbing an accusing finger at where Greg, Millie, Susan and the others had settled, camo clothing peeking out from under their school robes.

"So?" Ron shrugged. "Why should it matter?"

"'Cos it bloody does matter, is what. It's the Sorting Feast," Seamus attempted to get up in Ron's face, "and this is the _Gryffindor_ table, and _they're_ not _Gryffindors_."

"Screw you," Su Li shoved forward, chin jutting aggressively.

Seamus squeaked and dived behind Neville. "Keep her away from me! She's a psycho, nut-case, _lunatic_!"

"How rude," Su Li growled, "wait till…"

"Is there a problem?" Professor Flitwick's voice came from behind them, sounding cheerfully polite.

"Er, no, Sir," they chorused as they all attempted their best innocent looks.

"Good, good," the diminutive professor bounced on his heels as he smiled up at them, "to your House tables, if you would. We wouldn't want the feast to be delayed, now would we, as I'm sure you're all rather peckish by now."

He sauntered away, as the non-Gryffindors wandered off to their tables.

"So who's supervising our morning run?" Neville asked as they settled down again.

"Uncle Sev, I bet…unless he's still poorly," Ron said rubbing his stomach, "wish the feast would start."

Hermione rolled her eyes in amused exasperation.

.oOo.

Normally right about now the Headmaster would be doing an excellent impression of a little ray of sunshine- Snape glanced surreptitiously down the High Table- but at present he looked more like a living thunder cloud, and at the Sorting Feast too. How very curious.

Whatever it was that was upsetting him, he was being very tight lipped about it. Even Minerva and Pomona working together hadn't been able to get anything out of him, and for some reason a bemused looking Lupin was sitting further up the table with Black at his side. New DADA teacher, or was he here for the History position? Now that was going to annoy some of the little toe-rags; no unofficial nap-time now. He smirked down the table. Lupin gave him a small smile back, Black glaring suspiciously, until Lupin elbowed him hard in the ribs. It looked like that was one dog being kept on a tight leash.

He sniggered to himself as he absentmindedly rubbed his forearm. It seemed so strange to be without the Dark Mark, a constant reminder of a terrible decision when he was not much older than some of the students who were even now finding seats at their tables. To be without this constant reminder of his youthful stupidity…

On the other side of the Hall, the large landscape there was currently playing host to Brother-Chaplain Caius who was watching the proceedings with a particularly suspicious scowl, his eyes darting around the room. So far he was being surprisingly quiet.

A rustling by the doors caught his attention, and to his surprise Allesandor Carrow walked through, looking like a particularly stylish War Lord from somewhere cold and icy, what with all the Dire-Wolf pelts he was wearing over the suit of Goblin-made armour he was sporting tonight. Snape couldn't help but notice the paint stripping glare Dumbledore levelled at the oblivious giant as he strode impressively towards the high table, hand on the hilt of his sword, his ridiculous entourage following behind him, while Artemis trotted at his heels.

Not that Snape had any objections to some decent conversation during dinner, but what precisely was the Senior Under-Secretary doing here, sick leave or no? He gave Carrow a quizzical look as the large man settled in his chair, his entourage spreading about behind him, but Carrow just smirked and tapped the side of his nose, utterly failing to answer any questions as he settled back in his chair to talk to Faulks, who was looking increasingly as if he were carved out of granite.

The rest of the faculty seemed less than impressed by their very important guest. Probably not the greeting the first years were expecting, he thought, as he grinned at a glaring Minerva as she led the new first years into the hall. There must be some sort of widespread malnutrition going around that he hadn't heard about, because this lot were even more undersized than last year's offering.

The Sorting started off with no particular surprises, the Hat's song being particularly long winded and dull this year as it extolled the virtues of each house in yet another permutation. Obviously the centuries of coming up with these ridiculous little rhymes had taken a real toll on whatever it used for an imagination. Maybe he could give it some inspiration by feeding the wretched thing a thesaurus. Now that could be interesting.

He leaned forward as he spied a familiar pair of furry twitching black ears among the small crowd of first years. Oh Merlin, it was _that_ year. Searching nearby in the crowd, he found the other half of the dreadful duo, a jaunty blue bow perched on top of her head. Oh wonderful, just the thought of Felix and Tiffany having more control over their magic to aid them in their mischief…but of course there was a parent on staff. Snape gave Carrow a sideways look; oh yes, if that pair got into trouble he knew exactly who he was going to palm them off on to.

It was almost amusing the way Tiffany practically ran to the stool and plonked herself down, the heels of her muggle trainers still managing to flash despite the magically saturated environment.

A moment later and the Sorting Hat sank down over her dark curls. "RAVENCLAW" the hat bellowed, barely ten seconds later. Tiffany bounced up with an ear splitting shriek of delight as she wrenched off the hat, practically flinging it at a wincing Minerva as she proceeded to thunder round the table to throw herself at Faulks. "TIM! TIM! I'M IN YOUR OLD HOUSE!" she bellowed as she attempted to crush her sort-of-cousin to death, "I DID IT! I DID IT! I'M A RAVENCLAW TOO!"

Snape could vaguely hear Faulks making congratulatory sounds under the general din; Minerva's expression of resigned horror on the other hand was something to be treasured. Apparently the Pratt family had made an impression.

Another few years and they'd be playing host to Tyler the budding little arsonist. Oh joy, all the wooden things the little hooligan could try combusting. He could just imagine Filch chasing after him, flinging aguamenti charms.

He rolled his eyes as the fuss around Tiffany died down and the Sorting continued. As Felix sat himself down on the stool, glaring at any strange looks he was getting, tail twitching irritably, Snape leaned over to Carrow. "Gryffindor," he said. "I see he still hasn't learnt to tie his shoe laces."

Carrow gave a snort of laughter, a deep rumbling sound that caused some nearby students to startle.

"GRYFFINDOR" the hat bellowed decisively.

Carrow gave him an amused smirk, as the little brat ran towards his new house-table, shoe laces flapping.

.oOo.

Settling back, Ron let out a large burp. "Ah, that's better," he smiled happily, ignoring Hermione's disgusted look. "Could you pass me the steak and kidney pudding, Nev...ah, thanks. I don't know what the house elves have put in it tonight, but this is just amazing."

Neville just grinned and shook his head as Ron tucked into thirds, Hermione shaking her head in exasperation.

"Wonder why Mr Carrow is here?" Neville said looking up at the High Table speculatively. "There should be two empty teaching positions, after all…"

"I hope who ever they've picked for History is good," Hermione sighed, "it is OWLs this year after all and we could really use the help."

That seemed to put a damper on the festive mood.

"Damn," Ron sighed, "this year's just going to be stress and hard work and…do you remember last year when that Ravenclaw had to be physically removed from the library because they'd had a complete breakdown and hadn't actually left in like _three days_ and the smell…"

"I thought that was just a rumour," Neville butted in.

"No, it really wasn't," Ron shook his head, "I got it from Millie who…"

Hermione shook her head in amused exasperation as the two descended into friendly bickering.

"…going to be pretty tough this year," Neville finally sighed, "I'm not sure how I'm going to get through it all."

"What…tougher than when we sparred with the Coven?" Hermione asked.

Ron and Neville stared at her.

"Or how about when Carrow set the Arena servitors to random," she raised an eyebrow enquiringly.

The two boys went rather pale at that. "Okay," Ron said finally, "you have a point."

.oOo.

As the meal ground to a surprisingly civilised halt, the Headmaster moved to the podium for the usual start of year announcement.

"Just a few items of note before you can leave for your beds, at the end of what, I'm sure, has been an exhausting day," Dumbledore said as he managed to summon up the ghost of a smile for the students.

"The usual warnings about the Forbidden Forest apply," Dumbledore said, "it is forbidden, unless you are being supervised by a teacher or are a member of the Defence Club."

A ripple of sniggers spread across the Hall. "The list of banned items is available for viewing on Mr Filch's office door. I recommend a look as it is really quite remarkable. Fanged Frisbees are a recent addition, as are flick-knives," Dumbledore said, obviously warming up to this, his most favourite time of the school year. "I regret having to say this, yet again, but Necromancy, Black Magic and all related Dark Arts are banned on School grounds, supervised or otherwise. We don't want a repeat of poor Professor Binns, now do we?"

"What?!" Snape distinctly heard Black mutter.

"Ah yes…Mr Filch has also asked me to remind the Defence Club that the open carrying of weapons in between classes is not appreciated, nor are mock duels. Please desist in both these activities or there will be repercussions."

Dumbledore gave the gathered students a severe look. Snape sighed as he gazed up at the ceiling; might as well ask water to run uphill, and really, was it that much of a problem? As long as they didn't kill each other…

"…announce a few new appointments."

Snape leaned forward eagerly. Now this was definitely of interest.

"As I'm sure most of you will remember," the Headmaster carried on, "Professor Binns left us under rather murky circumstances. So it is with great delight I would like to introduce the new History of Magic Professor, Remus Lupin."

Lupin reluctantly stood to receive applause, which seemed most enthusiastic at the Ravenclaw table. Must be expecting some decent lessons for once, Snape thought.

"Professor Lupin," Dumbledore continued, "was, of course, the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor a couple of years ago, and I can assure you that he is just as knowledgeable of History."

Some of the Ravenclaws actually cheered.

But then, Snape thought, who was DADA Professor? He glanced up at Carrow…oh… _oh,_ he wasn't, was he? He began to break into a grin as some of his less dense colleagues began to realise what might be coming, Minerva looked particularly scandalised.

"No, Albus, _No_!" Minerva actually stood up and shouted, but the Headmaster hunched his shoulders and ignored her, as all trace of his early cheer vanished. Snape ducked down to hide his grin. Oh, this was going to be hilarious.

"I would also like you to welcome this year's Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor," he paused, visibly trying not to grind his teeth, "another returnee to Hogwarts, who I'm sure you all remember…Allesandor Darius Carrow."

The Defence Club leaped to their feet and climbing on to the benches, howling and cheering, drowning out any protests, as more than a few of their compatriots burst into tears or sat stony faced in shock, leaving the first years looking bewildered, puzzled and scared. Carrow's appearance probably wasn't helping either, Snape thought, as the large man rose from his chair and strode around the table, looming beside the Headmaster.

"I have a few things I would like to announce, if I may?" Carrow rumbled.

"Of course," the Headmaster said, looking as if he'd swallowed a particularly sour lemon.

Carrow nodded, apparently happy. "I look forward to seeing you all in class," he rumbled to the gathered students. One of the Hufflepuffs actually whimpered, Snape observed admiringly.

"To improve your performance, I am organising a run every morning at 6.30am. I look forward to seeing you all there."

It would be interesting to go along just to see how many of the little brats actually thought it would be compulsory, Snape mused. Yes, some early morning ingredients collecting in the forest was definitely in order this week.

"As some of you may be aware, I am the owner of Aquila Industries." Carrow looked around the Hall expectantly. "We are a new and _innovative_ manufacturer of non-magical weapons, among other things. As a result we have a thriving Research and Development department. Those of you about to take their NEWTs will no doubt be delighted to learn of a new apprenticeship scheme we will be initiating from next year. If you are interested in careers involving Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Warding, Herbology, Defensive magic or Potions, come and see me for more information."

Snape watched in surprise as Carrow smiled shark-like at the students before returning to his seat. Trust him to turn this entirely to his advantage, a recruitment drive where he got to spend nine months looking at all the possible candidates before cherry-picking the best ones. The Ministry was going to be furious.

"Thank you, Allesandor…and now let us sing the school song," an annoyed looking Dumbledore said, holding his wand ready, "pick your own tune."

But Brother Chaplain Caius got there first, booming out a hymn of joyous anger at the destruction of the Heretical and Xenos enemies of Mankind, Carrow eagerly joining in as a shower of bright yellow rubber ducks began to pelt down from the ceiling.

He could get used to this, Snape smirked to himself from under the safety of his hastily conjured umbrella; at least it was tuneful.

.oOo.

"Hey," Ron bellowed over the sound of the two Space Marines' thunderous singing, "Those Hufflepuffs, they know the words!"

"So do Fred and George," Neville screamed his mouth mere inches from Ron's ear.

Ron leaned forward to glare down the table to where his two older brothers stood on either side of his giggling sister, striking dramatic poses while they sang along.

"Er, no I don't think they do," he bellowed, "actually, I think they're singing that song about the hedgehog that always get Mum really, _really_ angry."

"So why do those Hufflepuff guys know this hymn?" Hermione yelled her face scrunched in a thoughtful frown, "I think we'd have noticed if we'd seen them hanging around Carrow's Chapel, so the only other place they could have learnt them is…him," she stared up at the large landscape that dominated the wall near the main doors, currently playing host to Brother Chaplain Caius who was bellowing out yet another verse about Humanity's divine right to rule the Galaxy. "Do you think he's proselytising to the students?"

"Maybe…you've got to admit he is one of the strangest portraits ever," Neville yelled, "far too clever by half."

. .oOo.

The rubble strewn landscape stretched as far as the eye could see, tainted and barren, a place he knew instinctively that no normal human being could survive in. Even the air seemed poisoned, stinking of something metallic and sweet, stinging his eyes and hurting his chest with every breath he took.

Above, sullen bilious clouds roiled, illuminated by sudden flashes of light but it didn't appear to be a storm…there was some sort of air-borne battle going on up there, some desperate struggle for survival over an already doomed world.

To his horror, his feet began to move of their own accord, propelling him towards a small ridge of broken rubble crowned by the remains of a reinforced concrete slab, steel rods stabbing up into the sky like broken hinges. Beyond…beyond…his instincts screamed at him to stop. Something unspeakable, some primal evil lurked beyond that hill and if he crested it…

He tried to change direction, even attempted to trip himself up, heaven knows there were plenty of opportunities here for that, all to no avail as his feet relentlessly marched on, his chest tightening, screaming in pain as his breath became more and more paniced.

A bright pillar of light lanced down through the clouds, the air ripping apart with a sound that was like a physical force slamming into his body, knocking the air from his lungs. Then the tidal wave of super-heated air hit him, full of dust and rubble…

Snape sat bolt upright in bed feeling quite unnerved, cold sweat trickling down his spine, heart racing a mile a minute. "It was only a dream," he muttered to himself as he scrubbed at his face, fishing his wand out from under his pillow finally relaxing at its familiar and reassuring weight in his hand. Casting a quick tempus charm, he found to his horror… "Bloody half four in the bloody morning," he snarled to himself as he slammed back onto the pillows. He was far too unsettled now for sleep; besides, by the time he did manage to drift off it'd be time for him to get up. Talk about pointless.

Damn it, he might as well just get up. Grumbling to himself, he threw back the covers and shuffled off to the bathroom.

He was on to his third cup of coffee when he remembered something that would actually improve his morning; Carrow's run, and just for once, it wouldn't just be the little lunatics from the Defence Club running around in the cold and the mud, the entire school had been invited. And since it had been Carrow himself doing the inviting…how many would turn out for it in sheer fear, despite still being exhausted from the previous day's journey?

An interesting question worthy of investigation; would exhaustion win out, or would their natural fear of Carrow trump all rational thought?

Grabbing his ingredients collection kit and his cloak, he set off to investigate.

.oOo.

At some point during the night it had rained heavily, leaving everything soggy underfoot, the grass depositing copious quantities of water onto his trouser legs and the hems of his robes. Normally he'd be annoyed, but after last night it was reassuringly solid and normal, the breeze coming off the lake fresh and crisp in the pre-dawn light.

Ahead lay the reassuring bulk of the Forbidden Forest, dark and silent, the leaves just beginning to show a hint of russet and gold. He'd got a little time before the start of Carrow's "fun run".

The leaf litter was even soggier, the branches overhead seeming to be aiming drops of water down the back of his neck with pin-sharp precision. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all, and apparently he was a week or two early for the particular mushrooms he'd been vaguely hoping for. Well, blast…

He glared around the damp trees, the oppressive feeling of the night begin to rise again. Rustling sounded above and to his left, leaving him flinching, wand in hand as a wood pigeon exploded into the air. A branch snapped nearby, the sound echoing off the trees. Snape whirled round as something came out into the clearing, something large and damp and _animal_.

"Wizard," the centaur boomed, glaring down at him, and looking quite perplexed.

Snape froze as another centaur stepped out behind him, Ronan, he thought. Certainly he'd had dealing with this particular centaur before…and then another one stepped out into the clearing, this one clearly female, eyeing him suspiciously as she gripped the hilt of a short-sword slung at her side.

This had suddenly become extremely dangerous.

"Centaur," he replied, bowing stiffly.

The centaur paced on the spot, dinner-plate sized hooves scuffing up the damp leaf litter.

"The Monster has returned," he intoned, glaring round at the damp forest.

The Monster? Snape blinked; what was the creature on about? "Do you mean Mr Carrow?" he asked.

The centaurs stared straight at him, their intense focus unnerving to say the least.

"He has returned to Hogwarts to take up the position of Defence Professor once again," Snape carried on, desperately keeping his face as smooth and expressionless as possible.

One of the centaurs twitched his tail, shifting restlessly from hoof to hoof.

"He's going to be resident at the Castle probably until next June," Snape added helpfully.

"The Monster has disrupted _everything_ ," the first centaur burst out, "the Heavens are all a-kilter!"

Snape opened his mouth to say something, anything to get rid of them, maybe suggesting they complain to Carrow directly. Now that would be interesting to witness.

But the centaur ignored him. "His star deviates from its course onto a path it had no business being, and now he affects the paths of others. Mars rises too early, far too bright, Jupiter rears in anger and Saturn responds, and Pluto… _Pluto_ …" The centaur kicked his back legs in frustration.

Snape edged away from the enraged creature, feeling a sense of relief when his back collided with a tree. Now if the bloody thing tried charging him he might have enough time to get behind some actual solid shelter.

"Worst is yet to come," the centaur continued. " _His_ star has risen, aeons too early. The future is spinning away from us, Potions Master Snape, and we are at its mercy."

"Have you, err, tried approaching Mr Carrow?" Snape offered as he very slowly and very carefully sidled into safety.

The centaurs stared at him in silence until he couldn't help but shift nervously. "I'm not saying he'd listen to you," he said, trying to mask his growing desperation, "but at least you would get to make your feelings known."

The first centaur shook his head as if loosening a thought. " _His_ star has risen too early. We were _never_ meant to witness it."

Snape watched them melt back in among the trees open mouthed, the troubling sense of unease worse than ever.

"There are mushrooms in a clearing not two minutes from here," Ronan pointed out before he disappeared. Startled, Snape inclined his head politely only to find he was now alone among the damp dripping trees and the very soggy leaf litter.

Two minutes from here? What were the chances it was more like six or maybe even ten minutes? Ruddy centaurs.

.oOo.

Mushrooms? Right. That was the last time he took advice off a centaur, bloody man ponies. Snape glared down at the meagre offerings in disgust.

Fairy Flax-Caps, a magical relative of the mundane (and much more useful) ink-caps; instead of going black and manky, these ruddy things would suddenly disintegrate in a shower of sparkles that had been known to be passed off as " _real genuine fairy dust"_ to the more stupid and gullible. You couldn't even make ink from them.

In fact, he could only think of one potion that used them at all, a ridiculous pranking elixir that only a first year would fail to spot, or stoop to using, though the effects were quite interesting, changing the hair of the victim an interesting array of vibrant colours with a distinctive metallic sheen, at the same time causing it to stand on end.

The real question was, could he trick Carrow into drinking it? And would it have any effect if he did? He seemed pretty impervious to everything else; maybe with a little tweaking…it definitely had possibilities.

A distant shout caught his attention. Was it that time all ready? He strode to the tree line to be greeted by the sight of most of the school stampeding past, led by Carrow who was casually bouncing along, the Defence Club close behind.

The rest of the students…a soggy miserable Hufflepuff jogged past, followed by a couple of his classmates, one of whom was limping. A chubby Ravenclaw struggled past a minute later, face purple, sounding remarkably like the Hogwarts Express.

Nott trailed after them, his shoes hanging round his neck by their laces as he ran barefoot, his expression grim but determined. Snape frowned as he took in the raw welts on the lad's heels and toes. No doubt he wouldn't be the only one.

Oh, Poppy was going to be absolutely ecstatic when all the injured made their way up to the hospital wing. A slow smile crept across his face at the thought of Carrow being severely hexed by an enraged healer; not that it seemed to have much effect, which always seemed to annoy Poppy even more…

"STOP WALKING," Carrow's bellow echoed across the lake. Snape grinned to himself; there was going to be an entire nine months of this to look forward to. Smirking to himself, Snape strode back up to the Castle, the sounds of misery and pain of the early morning runners helping to finally dispel the lingering unease of the night.

. .oOo.

"Ridiculous," stormed Cornelius Fudge, thumping the top of his desk with a hand in a manner he hoped looked suitably masculine and authoritive. The "acting" Senior Under Secretary took absolutely no notice of him, continuing with his stony faced shuffling of documents.

"Why would anyone consider sending a child under the age of eleven to school," Fudge continued, desperate to make an impression, "children that age, all they want to do is play games all day. They don't have the concentration…"

"I learnt to read and write when I was four," Faulks pointed out coldly, "by age five I had been introduced to the basics of addition and subtraction, could use a ruler, and name simple shapes with confidence…among other things."

Fudge glared at the younger man who was now jotting down notes with, to his thinly veiled disgust, one of those new fangled muggle steel-nibbed dip pens.

"There is a damn good reason why the Wizarding World desperately needs primary education. Take, for example, a delightful young man," Faulks sneered (or Fudge hoped it was a sneer), "who I'm going to call, for the sake of my story, Bertie. Bertie, a fine example of his kind, arrived at Hogwarts barely able to read and write, but he didn't let it hold him back, instead choosing to throw his name around and bully his year mates into doing his homework for him. As a result he only just managed to scrape through his OWLs, and as for his NEWTs…" Faulks shook his head in disgust. "So of course, when Bertie finally decided that he wanted to have a job, he came to the Ministry expecting to just be able to walk into a position because of who his father was."

"Quite reasonable, of course," Fudge nodded.

Faulks gave him a flat look. "But, of course, he failed the Entrance Exam. Bertie, not having really grown up in the years since Hogwarts, or kept up with recent events, reacted predictably. In the end Security threw him out," Faulks said with a satisfied sniff.

"But…but…his father…" Fudge spluttered horrified. Who was this apparently well connected pureblood who had been refused a position at the Ministry? The backlash from his family could be terrible!

"But nothing, Minister," Faulks gave him a stare that froze his spine, "the Ministry is better able to function without such people clogging up the system, and creating unnecessary bureaucracy."

"You jumped up little mud-blood," Fudge snarled leaping to his feet, "talking about your betters like that. I have had enough," he screamed kicking his desk, "YOU'RE FIRED! GET OUT!" He stormed round his desk, chest puffed out importantly, finger pointing to the door.

Faulks raised an eyebrow, obviously unimpressed. "You do realise you can't just fire your underlings like that anymore, don't you?"

"WHAT?" Fudge roared, feeling quite ready to tear the remains of his hair out.

"Minister, the Employee's Rights Bill, part of Mr Carrow's drive to bring us in line with the better aspects of the non-magical world. You signed it into law eight months ago," Faulks said, his expression almost condescending. "You actually have to prove a legitimate reason for sacking an employee now."

"Then I'll change it," Fudge snarled, chest puffing up in outrage.

"No, you won't," Faulks told him flatly, "you'll do exactly as you're told. You seem to be forgetting, Minister, that the only reason you are still where you are is that Mr Carrow finds you useful."

Fudge stared at him, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Suddenly realising he probably looked like a badly stunned fish, he turned on his desk with a snarl of ineffectual rage, giving the abused piece of furniture a solid kick.

Something underneath the desk made a distinctly wet sound, and a cloud of rotten stink was released into the confined air of the office.

Gagging, Fudge sprinted for the door, slamming it open as he raced for the wastepaper basket sitting next to his secretary's desk, which he was promptly, gloriously sick in.

"Really, Cornelius," his secretary glared at him over her half-moon glasses, lips tight and pinched in disapproval.

"Sorry, sorry," Fudge muttered as he backed away from the rather caustic witch who never hesitated to remind him she'd gone to school with his father or how disappointing he was in comparison.

Faulks stalked out of the office, some sort of bubble charm over his head, the wretched paperwork tucked under his arm. "I do believe that the Ministry Prankster has struck again," he said as he dumped the blasted stuff on the rather plush visitor's sofa. "When he found the time to do it, I have no idea."

"What?" Fudge said intelligently.

"Unless _you're_ in the habit of sticking muggle-style vacuum packed haddock to the underside of your desk, that is." Faulks gave him a hard look as he handed over more bloody forms to sign. Fudge took them reluctantly.

"This is why it would have been preferable to meet in Mr Carrow's office," Faulks sighed as he began sorting through the various folders.

"But I always get lost, and your office manager is scary," Fudge muttered feeling put upon and miserable as he glared at the blasted handful of parchment. "Why do I need to sign them, anyway?"

Faulks gave him a withering glare. "You could always try reading the things," he pointed out, "I think you'll find, sir, that the top one is an internal memorandum pertaining to pets in the workplace, something you yourself were rather keen on, considering that nasty little incident when someone's pet crup ran amok in the staff canteen."

Fudge stared at the document again, shifting his feet in embarrassment. Er…yes, he had wanted to make it clear to the Ministry staff as a whole that while having a familiar was a wonderful thing, that they really shouldn't be fed experimental potions or too much cake, or anything else that would inconvenience their fellow employees.

"Fine, fine," he muttered as he grabbed a nearby quill and hastily scrawled his signature across the parchment. How had his life ended up like this? He'd been planning to retire after a few more terms in office to a nice comfortable (and not so little) place in the country that Mrs Fudge had been cooing over where they would be able to hold wonderful dinner parties and the like, select guests only, thank you very much…and then _Carrow_ happened…and suddenly he was feeling very alone, even worse than after Dad had died. Who would help him? Who would listen?

oOo

"Thank you for seeing me, Headmaster," Fudge simpered, "and on such short notice, as well."

"And despite it being the beginning of the school year too. Not at all, Cornelius," Dumbledore smiled benignly at him from where he sat behind his desk, a buttered scone in one hand.

Fudge gave him a watery smile as he tried to gather his nerves together and just ask. It had seemed so easy in the space of his office (once it had been aired out) to just nip over to Hogwarts and persuade the Chief Warlock to take his side, see his point of view, but now he was here actually facing the man…

"Not that this isn't delightful," Dumbledore said as he selected a couple of ginger newts with the tongs the house-elves had thoughtfully provided, "but I am a mite puzzled as to why you were so desperate to meet with me; surely not to talk about the weather?" He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Swallowing nervously, Fudge did his best to smile engagingly, something his mother had always said was his best feature.

"Erm…oh…yes…Allesandor Carrow," he said finally, trying not to feel sick, "he's rather a large problem, a small problem I mean. Nothing I can't handle," he said to Dumbledore's rather disbelieving expression, "yes, a little problem…though he is rather large isn't he…"

"Cornelius," Dumbledore sighed.

"…and that awful secretary of his," Fudge carried on, rather aware that he was probably rambling now, "and the changes they keep making, the people they've upset! Honestly, the Ministry is a shadow of its former self!"

"Really?" Dumbledore smiled politely. "You know," he frowned thoughtfully, "when I went to register my taxes this year, the young lady who served me didn't demand a bribe," he smiled brightly as Fudge blinked in puzzlement. How was this in any way relevant? Bribes were just a way of life, the Ministry ran on them.

"And this extremely efficient young lady," Dumbledore continued, "was one of our more ambitious Ravenclaw muggleborns, fresh out of Hogwarts and already embarking on her career in the Ministry. It really was quite wonderful to see."

"But see here, Albus…" It was like a set of flood gates had opened and he found himself pacing back and forth among the numerous spindly legged tables that littered the office, their enigmatic contents spinning, twitching and emitting small puffs of smoke as he strode past, pouring out his complaints against Carrow, hands clasped behind his back.

"…it's terrible, Albus! What do I do?" He ground to a halt feeling quite limp and washed out.

"Albus?" he asked. The Headmaster was leaning back in his chair gazing up at the ceiling, idly twiddling his thumbs.

"Hmmm, quite the little problem you have there," Dumbledore said finally, smiling sweetly, "though I do feel quite a bit of it was entirely of your own making. Whatever possessed you to give Allesandor an office in such an isolated part of the Ministry, where you wouldn't be able to keep an eye on him? I did warn you Cornelius, Allesandor has never been exactly shy about what exactly he is and what he's spent most of his life doing."

"But, but," Fudge deflated like a pricked balloon, "you will support me…won't you?" He flinched at how small and pathetic and _desperate_ he sounded.

Dumbledore's smile was almost chilly. "Well, of course not, Cornelius; why would I want to be seen as supporting Allesandor's puppet? It would be political suicide, especially with all the recent upheaval."

"What!" Fudge spluttered indignantly. He wasn't Carrow's puppet, not at all…not really…he was just struggling a little to keep his head above the murky political waters of the Wizengamot, that was all. Why did Lucius have to just suddenly die like that; why did everything have to be so difficult?

Well, he was just going to have to take matters into his own hands, wasn't he?

. .oOo.

The sound of desperation and heavy breathing filled the air, joined by the stink of sweat. Carrow looked around the class in disgust, hand gripping the hilt of his sword reflexively. Most of them were struggling through the basic exercises, faces alarming shades of red and even purple, their limbs heavy and clumsy with exhaustion.

"YOU DO NOT GET TO STOP," he bellowed at Finnegan as he whirled round to find the youth semi-slumped and motionless, seeming to think that a turned back was an opportunity for slacking off. Finnegan squeaked in fear before returning to his clumsy approximations of a burpee.

How? Why? He'd been expecting so much more from these children, a sort of more expansive version of the Defence Club, but no…they whined, they faltered and fussed, had no confidence in the strength of their own bodies…they didn't trust him to know what was best. He'd even had to pull one young man, Mr Zacharias Smith out of the Apothecarium where he had been hiding, thanks to tales of non-existent physical woes he had inveigled Healer Pomfrey with. Carrow had always supposed that it was the Slytherins who were supposed to be the conniving devious ones, not a Hufflepuff thing at all (as far as Hogwart's system of Houses ever made sense that was.)

"Grab a practise sword. NOW!" he bellowed, glaring as the students dived around him, the Defence Club in the lead. They expertly dodged Natasha's teeth from where she guarded the pile of weapons, racing back to their places. The rest of the class…

Sighing in frustration, he waded through to where Natasha sat, plucking her off the ground.

"Well?" he snarled at the staring students. "Are you waiting for an invitation?"

The students dived on the weapons in a panicked frenzy, a small squabble breaking out which he quickly put a stop to with a very pointed glare.

"Basic sword drills. NOW!" he bellowed, ignoring Natasha's playful chewing of his fingers.

Granger, Weasley and Longbottom leapt to comply, staying, he noticed, in a three as they took turns. The rest of the class…the rest of the class appeared to not know what they were doing. There were some vague (and terrible) attempts at copying Granger, but most stood around, despair, panic and exhaustion radiating off them, souring the air.

Carrow closed his eyes as he quietly asked the God-Emperor for strength. "Am I to assume," he glared at the nearest witless youth, "that you have not in any way practised your sword drills since last I taught here?"

"Er," Dean Thomas sidled backwards looking around frantically, "ermm…not really…not done anything with weapons since you left…Sir."

"So, you have not joined the Defence Club or taken part in their training?" Carrow glared at the recalcitrant Gryffindor with narrowed eyes.

"Er…no, Sir," Thomas muttered shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

"Why in the name of the Golden Throne did you not take this educational opportunity that has been offered up to you on a silver platter?" Carrow enquired through gritted teeth.

Thomas stared at his feet, looking highly uncomfortable and miserable.

Carrow ground his teeth in frustration. "Granger, Longbottom," he barked, "demonstrate pattern number one."

The two leapt into action facing off against one another, swords held at the ready. Granger swung her sword in for a strike, Longbottom blocking it and repeating the strike, the two rapidly picking up pace.

"Exactly," Carrow snarled causing the pair to grind to a halt, "now, any more problems?" he glared round at the class. They all scurried to comply, the results being of varying quality. Carrow sighed heavily at the sheer incompetence that he was witnessing.

"Why does it have to be so heavy?" Patil complained to Brown in a whisper as he stalked past.

Finnegan and Thomas were little better, their blocks and strikes sloppy wavering things as they half-heartedly went through the motions.

"Again," he growled as he stopped to examine their progress, hand gripping the hilt of his sword slightly harder than necessary at the pathetic display.

"Strengthen your wrists," he snapped at Thomas before turning to Finnegan, "and you, lengthen your stride. You will be knocked off balance if you stand with your feet so close together, idiot boy."

The Defence Club members were such leagues ahead in terms of technique and style the contrast was painful to observe.

"Second and third drills now," he nodded as Granger switched with Weasley so he could have his turn. The young man was filling out nicely, a sharp contrast to the distant and hazy memory he had of the lad when they had ridden a train together so very long ago.

A sob and a scream broke the strained and sweaty silence of the class. Carrow jerked round to find Brown clutching her hand to her chest, tears pouring down her cheeks as a frantic Patil tried to help her, the distinct tang of blood ghosting into the air.

For Thrones sake, Carrow gritted his teeth as he strode over. "Show me," he gestured towards the injury. Sobbing, Brown held out her hand to show…

"Merely a scratch," Carrow glared at the unimpressive wound, "continue."

"But..but…I'm feeling faint," Brown sobbed, "blood…blood…makes me queasy!"

Carrow stared at her in disbelief. "You are in distress because of the sight of your own blood?"

Brown nodded, sniffling wetly.

"UTTERLY RIDICULOUS!" Carrow roared, the frustration of the day finally peaking. "A weakness to the sight of blood? How is it possible to have such a thing? I assure you, Brown, that I will cure you of this flaw, by the Golden Throne, I swear it!"

Brown stared up at him in a daze from where she stood frozen, clutching her hand to her chest.

"Now pick up your sword and resume," Carrow snarled.

Jerkily, Brown leant down, picking up her training weapon. Disgusted, Carrow turned back to the rest of the class, only to find them standing there, watching him. Seeing his expression, they leapt back into action practising their forms with exaggerated enthusiasm.

If the rest of the school year was going to resemble this, then he may very well end up killing something with his bare hands, probably a student. That's if he didn't manage to grind his teeth flat in the interim.

.oOo.

As the bell signalling the end of class rang out, Brown and her ilk stampeded for the classroom door. Carrow watched them flee with a sneer; bunch of spineless brats.

In a corner the Defence Club members seemed to be having a hushed but fierce debate, a bundle of papers being pushed from one to another. He ignored them as he returned the practise swords to their storage, checking the classroom for lost items or rubbish.

"Professor?" Granger's voice came from behind him. He turned to find his younger apprentice standing there looking concerned.

He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Sir, erm, Allesandor," she sidled closer peering up at him seemingly concerned, "you do know that the Defence Club will take anything you throw at us, and enjoy it," she grinned, "but the others…they're never going to be soldiers, or warriors or even Aurors…they're just normal and really they're never going to be anything more, and there's nothing wrong with that, unless you break them of course," she gave him a narrow eyed glare before turning on her heel and stalking off in a very passable imitation of Timothy.

Carrow watched her leave, a slightly uncomfortable niggle at the back of his mind; maybe she had a point…but he didn't have to like it.

. .oOo.

"At least they didn't fall asleep," Sirius said as he bounced along, skipping over a vanishing step as they made their way down towards the Great Hall and dinner.

Remus gave a sarcastic huff. "Honestly, Padfoot," he sighed, "didn't you notice, Mr Stibbons had both arms strapped up, though since he was using a dictaquill I suspect he ended up with the best notes in the class, and Miss Pemberton had bandages wrapped round her head and seemed quite out of it. Her friend wasn't much better either, she'd got her…"

"I get it, I get it," Sirius held up his hands placatingly, dodging sideways when a small group of second year Gryffindors charged past. One of them was hauling along a purloined mace, obviously hoping for early membership to the Defence Club.

"Good luck, kid," Sirius shouted after him.

Remus gave him a nasty glare. "Mason, Cavill, Smythe! No running in the halls," Remus bellowed after them, "five points from Gryffindor. Each. And put the mace back where you found it!"

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" Sirius said, bouncing on his toes.

Remus glowered at him.

"Ah, come on, Mooney, they were only running," Sirius whined, "it's not like they were up to something."

"No?" Remus raised an eyebrow sarcastically as they went past a landscape, where a small herd of elephants appeared to be trying to hide in among the trees of an English country landscape, complete with a herd of cows crossing a small ford.

"You know we did much worse than _running_ as kids," Sirius tried with a hopeful grin.

"Not with stolen maces, we didn't," Remus said as he ducked behind a tapestry of a unicorn and into the secret passage that lay beyond. " _You_ and James got up to all sorts of things," he sighed, "no, this is all about your Godson causing havoc all around him. He doesn't seem to understand that the students have lessons other than his."

"Well, he's just…"

"Don't try and protect him, Sirius," Remus snapped, "the man is an utter menace with very dubious intentions and he's affecting my ability to _teach_."

"But…"

"The first time in _decades_ that History has actually been taught to an acceptable level, Padfoot!" Remus threw his hands up in exasperation.

"But…" Giving up, Sirius turned into Padfoot, dropping to the floor with a pitiful whine, shuffling ahead when Remus didn't even pause for breath.

"Remember what it was like? I had to self-study my favourite subject just to get passing grades because Binns was so dreadful, "Remus carried on, "and then when the OWLs started…"

A surprised and frantic canine yelp came from ahead, gradually receding into the distance. Remus sprinted towards the main staircase only to be confronted with a tidal wave of rubber ducks, each one the size of a shirt button, and in the distance, being carried away down the main staircase and into the entrance hall, a frantic Padfoot desperately paddling to keep his head above the glistening yellow tide.

"Sirius!" Frantically, Remus waded after his rapidly disappearing friend; if he was swept down the staircase while it was moving from one landing to the next…the thought was too awful to contemplate. Leaping and pushing and throwing himself forward, he made it to the next landing just in time to see the struggling dog being swept over and down the next set of stairs, only for the tidal-wave of rubber ducks to vanish as mysteriously as they had appeared, leaving a now very human Sirius paddling in midair before the inevitable happened, his jaw connecting with the steps with a sickening crack.

.oOo.

Narrowing his eyes, Snape hid the tip of his wand behind the stack of parchment and files he'd been forced to bring to the wretched Staff Meeting, the first of many. His current target sat mere feet away, a plate of biscuits provided by the House Elves for the occasion. Now if he was quick and hid them in his muggle style ring-binder, he could swipe all the ginger nuts before Minerva could get her sticky paws on them.

With a twitch of his wand, the biscuit silently zipped across the table towards him. Carefully looking around to see if anyone was watching, he tucked it in his file. Lupin gave him a faintly amused smile, which he promptly ignored.

The over-sized chair next to him creaked as Carrow settled into place, depositing a large stack of books, folders and other assorted paperwork in front of him; some of it, to Snape's vague interest, was bundled together with red ribbon. Looked like they were about to be subjected to another one of Carrow's lunatic schemes. At least he wasn't going to be bored for the next hour or two then.

"…make the morning run compulsory for all students," Carrow rumbled on, an hour later, obviously frustrated, "despite my best efforts, their fitness levels are utterly abysmal. I dread to think how any of them would fare if they were ever put into an actual combat situation."

"Really, Allesandor," Dumbledore sighed in frustration, "is it truly that dire?"

Snape sighed as Carrow growled in annoyance, pointing out one terrible performance after another. "…one even attempted to emulate _fainting_. Absolutely despicable behaviour!" Carrow ranted, "I've had him in detention ever since, copying out texts on the importance of fortitude and duty."

"Do remember, Allesandor," Minerva said primly, "these students are only human. They lack your somewhat _enhanced_ physique and I must admit I for one am fed up with students arriving to class exhausted and nervous and not in any state of mind to _learn_. It's not acceptable, Allesandor, transfiguration is a discipline which requires the utmost concentration."

Beside her, Filius nodded from where he sat raised up on a pile of books. "Hear, hear," he said, "the number of silly mistakes my students have been making this term has been ridiculous, I tell you, and all because they're over tired!"

Carrow's jaw closed with an audible snap. "That's not the point, I _know_ they are capable of more," he muttered, as he crossed his arms over his chest and glared sullenly at the rest of the staff.

"With that settled," Dumbledore looked around the table, "the morning runs will remain an _optional_ activity…though highly recommended."

"Albus," Minerva hissed, "I'm fed up with my students turning up to class exhausted. It's making keeping them on track with the syllabus very difficult."

Pomona nodded in agreement. "It's not safe nodding off in the greenhouses. You have to be on your toes, especially when you get on to OWL and NEWT material. I've had to send students back to their common rooms, they've been so tired."

"It wouldn't be a problem if they actually took regular exercise," Carrow growled, obviously raring for a fight. Minerva and Pomona glared at him.

A series of sharp bangs halted the argument before it could really get going. Shame, Snape thought, as the Headmaster gave the would-be combatants withering glares. That time Minerva had attempted to turn the Giant Lump into a mahogany bureau had been a memory to treasure. It would be fascinating to see what Pomona had up her sleeves if she ever got the opportunity.

"Things will stay exactly as they currently stand," Dumbledore said, "and that is to be the _end of it_. Now," he cleared his throat smiling benignly once more, "any last questions, queries or anything of that nature?"

Snape began to gather up his things, wolfing down the last ginger biscuit as he prepared to make a speedy get away.

"I have a couple of things I wish to discuss," Carrow boomed.

Groaning quietly, Snape sank back into his chair.

"Whatever it is, the answer is _no_ ," Minerva snarled. Dumbledore sighed heavily, waving at Carrow to continue.

"Indeed," Carrow rumbled. "The Minister of Magic had decreed that I should survey the School and its running and compile a report for the Wizengamot on such. I will of course need to inspect how each subject is being taught, access to accounts and the like…"

Snape bristled; his class, _inspected_ …

"…if you have any concerns, areas you perceive as needing improvement, I wish to hear them…and they will be added to the report…"

Improvements, like the ventilation charms in the potions classroom? Snape gave the large man a considering look, they'd been severely damaged when he himself had been little more than a third year at the school when an explosion during a class had damaged the ceiling, killing one student and injuring several others. He'd rather snap his wand then let a similar incident occur…

"…telling you in the greatest confidence of course, a bill to reform the Magical Education system, but to do that first we need to know what we already have…"

Snape slumped down further into his chair as Carrow rumbled on, the others interjecting here and there; and he'd dared to think he could make a quick get-away. Clearly some dark god was out to punish him.

"…finally, one last thing…"

"Really?" Snape muttered giving the large man his best sarcastic glare…

"…I will be installing a satellite dish on the roof to facilitate communications with the offices at Aquila Ind. it is imperative that I keep up to date with the doings of my business. I hope that is acceptable," his expression making it very clear that it had better be.

Vector hesitantly raised her hand. "What's a satellite dish?"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"A handsome young man of your age should be married," Madam Longbottom went on, completely oblivious to Sirius's discomfort as he attempted to retract inside the horrible Wizengamot robes he'd been forced to wear.

"Or at least looking," Narcissa agreed from his other side, obviously enjoying his discomfort.

"Oh Merlin," Sirius moaned to himself; since when did _Cousin Cissy_ get all cozy with Madam Longbottom of all people?

"I know a number of delightful young ladies who'd be an excellent match for you," Madam Longbottom carried on, "young Griselda Parkinson for example, very talented at Herbology. Her greenhouses are simply marvellous."

Sirius stared at her in silent horror. He remembered Griselda from school; horrible acne scars, plus she seemed to almost constantly smell of dragon dung thanks to her practically living in the greenhouses because plants were literally her only interest in life. She was more likely to marry a succulent than a human being.

"Isn't that Cornelius's second cousin?" Narcissa asked.

Sirius tried to tune the awful pair out as they began to discuss pureblood genealogy in detail, something he'd taken great care as a child to learn as little about as he physically could.

"…Lucretia Boyle has grown into her looks very nicely, plus she's just recently come back from the Continent having gained her Mastery in Charms," Narcissa pointed out.

"Oh, I had heard," Madam Longbottom smiled, "yes, she'd be a marvellous choice, very intelligent young lady, and sensible too. Wasn't she in Ravenclaw?"

"Yes, she was," Sirius growled in frustration, "and in fourth year she threatened to castrate me if I ever came within a hundred yards of her ever again."

"Probably richly deserved too," Narcissa said tartly. "But that was years ago, Sirius. Don't be silly."

Frustration clawing at his gut, Sirius hauled himself to his feet. "If you're going to carry on like this, planning my future and all I'm going elsewhere."

Turning in what he hoped was a dramatic swirl of robes, he stormed off, looking for a gold-digging, harpy free corner to sulk in, until the Wizengamot session began.

"Sirius, your robe is rucked up at the back," Narcissa called after him.

Hunching his shoulders, his face heating up, Sirius stormed around the corner.

"Honestly, men," he distinctly heard Madam Longbottom say, "if they didn't have us to help them they'd walk round with their robes on back-to-front and their underpants on their heads."

oOo

He was still annoyed when they all had to take their places; fortunately the Black family seat was far away from either Cissy or Madam Longbottom, otherwise he might have had to spend the entire dull meeting as Padfoot. Actually, that was a really good idea, since then he could curl up on this rather inadequate seat and catch a nap.

Stinging pain bloomed across his right ear, and he barely managed to suppress a yelp of pain. Clutching his injured ear, he turned in his seat to find the elderly Lady Cromwell glaring at him, a roll of parchment clutched in one wizened hand.

Oh Merlin, Sirius sank down in his seat, why was that horrible old biddy here? It was bad enough all the times he'd run into her at home when darling Mummy had had her over for tea, scones, and house-elf beheadings.

"Concentrate, you silly boy," she hissed, "I've got my eye on you, so if you try any of those immature tricks you so loved as a boy, I will make sure you smart for it. Honestly, the torment you put your poor mother through."

"Poor mother, my arse," Sirius muttered before he could help himself.

The roll of parchment whacked across his left ear causing him to yelp in pain as he protectively clutched his ears. He was being physically assaulted; he looked frantically at those seated nearby, was nobody going to intervene? No, apparently not; in fact, some of them, supposedly upright members of society, looked as if they were trying not to laugh.

"Mr Black," a cold sharp voice rang out.

Sirius froze, feeling as if he'd been suddenly dunked in ice-cold water as everyone turned and stared at him. Worst of all, glaring up at him, was the second scariest person in the Ministry. Carrow, his darling dinky God-son, was, of course, _the_ scariest, but the giant psycho had been working very hard to turn his secretary/personal assistant/apprentice assassin into a miniature version of himself. Sirius suspected vile and unnatural torture was involved, because how else could someone who, according to Dumbledore at least, had been quite normal, nice even, turn into this frozen rigid monster?

Acting Senior Under-secretary Timothy Faulks looked like most people's idea of a vampire, gaunt and tall and stylishly attired in black, the only hint of colour his Ravenclaw themed sash. The velvet eye-patch wasn't helping either. Behind this avatar of doom, Sirius could just see the Minister who he couldn't help but notice was looking incredibly nervous, panicked even, and had the man lost weight recently?

"Mr Black," Faulks repeated with a frown, "if you would please refrain from your usual hijinks, unless of course you have something to contribute to the current discussion…"

Sirius frantically shook his head as he slid down in his seat. Maybe he should turn into Padfoot and then he could hide under the seat.

"…the new members of the Wizengamot an opportunity to introduce themselves," Faulks droned on.

"An excellent idea," Dumbledore smiled benignly looking up at the seated members. "As I'm sure many of you have noticed there are a number of new faces among us."

"Oh, yippee," Sirius muttered to himself, more boredom. Why hadn't he thought to bring a magazine or something with him? He winced as the roll of parchment poled him hard in the back of the head, followed by Lady Cromwell's meaningful growl. Honestly, he was going to have to invent some excuse or other to move the family seat or something, because he wasn't sure how much of this he could take.

"…Malcolm Brown, I'm a book keeper for the Cleansweep Broom Company," the nervous man adjusted his glasses with an awkward laugh. "Due to my being a cousin through the paternal line, I will be sitting for the Gibbon family seat."

A book keeper? He looked it too, Sirius thought, from the top of his boringly safe haircut, slightly thinning at the temples, to the tips of his utterly dull shoes, which though well worn, had been carefully polished for the occasion.

And who was this weirdo? He gave the woman who stood up an incredulous stare. It was like she'd tried to make her garments every single colour of the rainbow. Even her socks were stripy, her bright red shoes and very frizzy orange hair clashing nastily with her official Wizengamot robes.

"…lecturer in Sociology for the Open University. I must admit," she looked around the Hall, her multitude of silver, amber, and turquoise jewellery clanking, "I was rather surprised when I received the letter from the goblins informing me I was eligible to sit for the Lestrange seat. But what a wonderful opportunity," she smiled happily as she gazed around.

Lestrange? Sirius grinned nastily; Bella and her darlings would have had a fit…though the Open University? He'd heard of that before. Wasn't that that thing Allesandor seemed to obsess over during the summer?

A few others introduced themselves, a lady who apparently worked elsewhere within the Ministry but she was very vague about where, which usually meant either the DMLE or DoM. Then there was another really bewildered dull looking man, who blinked around him as if he were trapped in a particularly horrible dream and hopefully was going to wake up any moment now.

That was when the cowled figure stood up, shifting nervously as it looked around. "It has been a long time since I last set foot within the walls of the Wizengamot," he gave a wheezing sigh, "not since 1821, in fact…after my unfortunate accident, my eldest son took over the role of family patriarch before passing it on to his son in his turn. But now I find my family sadly diminished, just the son of a disinherited daughter left. 'Tis terribly sad," he sighed again, his robes rustling as he shifted. "I am Augustus Severus Prince and I will be sitting for the Prince seat."

Sirius stared, a slow smile beginning to spread across his face as he applauded enthusiastically. This was absolutely utterly brilliant. If only mummy darling was alive to see this, she'd be spitting fireworks, but not like that time he'd actually managed to charm her that way. He missed accidental magic so much.

. .oOo.

He couldn't believe he managed to get himself in this mess, he grumbled to himself as he leaned over the cluttered desk to retrieve the official stamp. "Bloody paperwork, bloody muggles," he growled out loud as he stamped a series of documents relating to some official something or other with the muggle police force.

"Bloody Carrow," he snarled, as he flung the stamp back onto its ink pad. How had someone like _that_ , so obviously _not_ normal for either a muggle or a wizard just walked into such a prime position in the Wizengamot? And in so little time as well.

That was over two years ago now and the man was poking his nose into everything, upsetting people right left and centre and just generally meddling, turning the entire Magical government upside down in the process. Entire sub-committees had disappeared, departments had been combined, prominent (and to his mind completely useless) purebloods had been sacked for various misdemeanours ranging from actively stealing from the Ministry coffers to just never turning up to work, half-blood and even muggle-born employees had been promoted to positions where they actually had some real power.

And what had he, Martin "Marty" Cuthbert Stewart managed to achieve over the last two years? Abso-bloody-lutely nothing! That's what. He glared around his dingy office, sneering at the cup-rings on his colleague's desk (lazy bastard), the peeling paint of the walls, an old yellowing poster that shouted _Follow the green cross code!_ , the piles of paperwork his bloody work mate had decided he couldn't be bothered to do and were probably going to land up on _his_ desk come tomorrow morning; _hey Marty, could you do me a favour?_ Funny how it never worked the other way.

All he'd managed to do over the last two years was get further into debt with a bunch of people he'd wished he'd never met in his life.

All he'd wanted was a way of relieving the stress after work. Sure, going to the pub for a pint with some friends had been one thing, but then they'd started going to the cockfights and he'd placed a few bets, even won a bit, much to his delight. Got quite good at judging a bird's potential really. More often than not he'd broken even.

But then he'd decided to have a go at the big game, the bare-knuckle fighting, a little at first but the more matches he'd watched the more he'd been dragged in. There was just something so _primal_ watching two people have at each other with nothing but their bare fists. So he'd begun to bet bigger and bigger, and then he'd lost big time, his rent money and _everything_ , and the more he'd tried to dig himself out of his mess the worse things had got until he was seriously considering just packing his bags and just slipping away in the night…or he could just kill himself. A quick severing charm to the neck…he'd heard the trick was to bounce it off a mirror or something, made it easier for the magic to work.

He slammed the stamp down on yet another set of documents, their contents a dull smear of legalese. Tossing them into his out tray, they disappeared with a whoosh to some distant part of the Ministry. Feeling as grey as the walls, he pulled the next pile of governmental drivel towards him, the seemingly ever growing pile of parchment that filled his in-box teetering dangerously, before it finally unbalanced, cascading to the floor, drifting under every inconvenient obstacle it could.

"Well, bloody sodding hell!" Marty roared, aiming a kick at a very official looking document that even had a red wax seal. Bloody stuff did it on purpose he swore. He grumbled as he stiffly got down on his hands and knees so he could fish the damn stuff out from under the filing cabinet, and the desk, and even the stationary cupboard. He glared furiously at the recalcitrant piece of parchment.

Reaching forward, he stretched out to grab the corner of the blasted thing. To his surprise, the slightly grimy carpet came up to meet him, his vision beginning to grey at the edges as he blacked out.

.oOo.

"I thought he was never going to move," Caroline grumbled as she put her wand back into her holster, "honestly, the inconsideration of some people."

Annie gently poked the prostrate ministry employee with a foot. "Are you sure you didn't hit him a little too hard?"

Caroline glowered at her friend. "I've not really used a wand in a while but I've been practising hard these last few weeks, so maybe he was just inconsiderate and hit the floor harder than was strictly necessary."

Annie gave her a quizzical look. "How did he do that? He was only about a foot off it to begin with…"

"Shouldn't we just go and get the boss," Caroline interrupted her, "I'm sure he'll be eager to get started." She turned to the door, only to find Carrow easing his gigantic frame through the normal sized opening.

"Oh, Sir!" she warbled. "We were just about to fetch you. Your timing is excellent."

Carrow gave them a flat look as he looked round the small room with narrowed eyes. "The bickering suggested you had succeeded. Naturally I came to investigate. Roll him over…please."

Sighing heavily, Annie nudged the Ministry drone over with a foot. The man slumped onto his back, his mouth slack in his pale blotchy face.

Carrow crouched down carefully on one knee in the limited room he had, ignoring the fascinated stares of the two vampire ladies. Letting his mind drift away from the reality of the office, he sank into the man's consciousness. This "Marty" had one of the shallowest minds he'd come across, stilted and flat from years of daily monotony, memories of the same paperwork, the same faces over and over again until they resembled a bad photocopy (he ought to know, he actually tried it out once, until Timothy had told him off for wasting toner ink).

Layered underneath were all the hopes and dreams cruelly crushed and stunted by the harsh reality of adult life, of the desperation and drag of needing to earn a living, any living, to stay alive, the reality of being a half blood child of muggle-born parents, a nobody, a third class citizen.

Down further to childish wishes and fantasies, the joy of actively doing magic with a wand, friendships and fighting, flying a broom. Down to the beating heart of the man; here Carrow stayed a moment in the thrumming pulsing darkness and warmth of Martin "Marty" Cuthbert Stewart's very being, his instincts, his base impulses, his obsessions…which seemed to mostly revolve around his lack-of-a-sex-life and his gambling addiction, shallow and simple urges, and of course the reason why he had been siphoning money off from the departmental budget. Gambling dens and hookers, hardly unusual; what was interesting though was who he owed money to.

Placing his carefully crafted seed of control, he retreated back to the safety of his being and the solid reality of the office and the appraising looks of the two vampires.

"You glowed blue a bit," Annie said, arms folded over her chest as she stared at him thoughtfully.

"Honestly," Caroline sighed, "that had to be some of the most un-dramatic magic I have ever seen…but he is ours now, isn't he?"

Carrow shook his head with a sigh. "Indeed he is, and the less who know the better…" he gave the pair a withering look.

"Of course, Sir," Annie smiled nervously, Caroline nodding as she bobbed a little curtsey.

"Good." Carrow gave a sharp nod. Turning with a sigh, he began the annoying process of easing himself through the ridiculously undersized door.

.oOo.

Marty woke with a start, his mouth tasting as if he'd been eating the office carpet, which considering he was lying on the floor, was a real possibility. How the heck did he get down here? He could remember sitting at his desk finishing up the last bits of paperwork for the day, and then…

He scratched his head in frustration as he looked around in puzzlement to find sheaves of parchment littering the floor. Snarling in frustration, he began to gather them up. How long had he been asleep, because obviously he must have drifted off at some point.

Dumping it all back on his desk in a heap, he checked the time. Oh hell, oh bloody buggering…snarling, he kicked the chair, causing it to skitter across the carpet, teetering dangerously for a moment. This would be the second time this week alone that he'd failed to make it back to his flat. He might as well just get a sleeping bag and set up home under his desk. It would certainly save on rent, and there'd be less cockroaches too.

Damn, he could do with a shower, and a shave. He slumped against his desk as he scrubbed a hand across the stubbly mess of his chin. Looked like freshening charms again, he sniffed his armpit, oh yeah definitely needed, but first breakfast.

Marty stretched with a yawn, wincing as his jaw cracked. What he really fancied was sardines on toast. Oh yeah, that would go down a treat.


	4. Chapter 4

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

 _I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

* * *

Author's Note

My beta has returned from his trip and given the chapter a once over...so here it is, Chapter 4. Enjoy...

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

 _The sky above was a strange bilious yellow, a roiling mass of sickly clouds that looked utterly poisonous to the touch…and didn't smell much better. Dumbledore had almost gagged at the stench of rotten eggs that had filled the air. Even the air around him had a distinctly yellow tinge; this was neither a safe nor pleasant place to be if the usual fevered dreams from Carrow were anything to go by._

 _And in the usual way with dreams, the instance he attempted to get away, his feet became mired in the horrible, sticky mud of the trench he found himself standing in. In fact the entire landscape appeared to be made up of mud as far as the eye could see, cratered and pock marked, blackened remains of trees stabbing into the sky, an occasional burnt-out muggle conveyance abandoned to its fate._

 _A distant whistling sound caught his attention and he watched in apprehension as a spark of light arced towards him._

 _The pressure wave flung him into the mud wall of the trench and he tumbled down into the muck and slime, his hands coming into contact with things he really didn't want to think about, even as the mud covered boots of soldiers stormed past, faces hidden behind ugly rubber masks, their great coats flapping around their legs, as they climbed up and over into the storm of violence that thundered down around them, shaking the very air until his ears rang and he could barely think._

 _Would this ever end…why did everything in Carrow's mind revolve around destruction of the worst kind?_

 _To his intense relief the bombardment eased off, a strange stillness hanging in the air, almost anticipatory._

" _I would appreciate it," Dumbledore announced loudly as he hauled himself back to his feet, "if this would end now…if it were at all possible…"_

 _A surge of scalding air rushed over him knocking him back down into the trench and leaving him heaving for each painful breath as the ground shook until he thought the whole world was going to fall down around him._

 _With a rush, the trench wall before him collapsed in a surge of rotten wooden planks and mud and…oh, Good Merlin, he gaped in horror at what lay before him, decaying limbs poking up amid the debris, a young man, still dressed in his great-coat, his rubber mask partially burnt away, the vacant mud filled eye socket of his skull staring out mournfully…_

And then he'd woken up, at an absolutely ungodly hour of the morning. All efforts at returning to sleep had been futile and since he'd been unable to rid himself of the smell of rot, of staring dead eyes, he'd resorted to a brisk walk around the lake to clear the mind.

Dumbledore sighed heavily as he considered the stack of letters the owls had delivered that very morning that was now colonising his desk. The Carrow induced nightmares and the uneasy atmosphere that had settled over the Castle, was only added to by the increasing…curiousness of some of the correspondence from concerned parents.

It wouldn't be the first time this year, so far, he'd been forced to write a letter of explanation (and sometimes apologies) to some indignant pure-blood parent when their darling offspring had written home demanding- Dumbledore peered at the three foot long rant- an AK47. No, he had to agree with Mr and Mrs Greengrass, just this once, that that was an entirely unsuitable thing for young Astoria to be requesting for her birthday. He shuddered delicately to himself as he dipped his quill in the purple ink he'd especially chosen for the occasion.

… _if such requests should occur again, I highly recommend directing your ire towards the current Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Allesandor Darius Carrow, who will be able to address your concerns more fully…_

You never knew, it might go some way to reducing his daily ration of howlers, _and_ provide some cheap entertainment at breakfast too. There was always a silver lining to these things; you just had to look carefully for it.

Folding the parchment, he sealed it with a blob of green wax, pressing the school seal firmly into it before it could set. On to the next one…

… _no warning of all the extra costs. We had no idea our son would need all of this extra expensive exercise equipment, and some of it we are at a complete loss of where to buy it from. Until Donald asked for one, we'd never even heard of a Bergen…_

Dumbledore sighed heavily; this looked like yet another prospective member of the Defence Club. One of the stranger results of young Allesandor teaching this year; apparently, recruitment for the Defence Club was up, but of course now there had been a rash of new members trying to claim their recently acquired interest was actually compulsory, in a bid to get expensive equipment out of their parents.

Best to pop that bubble quickly, and point them towards the second-hand place Miss Granger had been kind enough to give him the details of. Then at least the parents could thrash it out with the enterprising young Donald themselves, probably quite literally.

Silver flashed in front of his eyes and Dumbledore sat back startled, blinking the sunspots from his vision. To his surprise, Minerva's patronus was pacing on his desk, looking quite agitated.

"Albus, you need to come down to the front gates as quickly as possible," Minerva's voice said, threatening doom, " _he's_ done something. Again."

He? He who? Did she mean Carrow? Albus felt his heart sink, of course she meant Carrow. What had the giant menace managed to do now? And the weekend had looked so promising too.

.oOo.

"What on Earth is going on?" Dumbledore said as he took in the small and extremely curious crowd of students, and even some staff who'd gathered around Hagrid near the main gates.

"Albus, _finally_ ," Minerva strode over, looking about as frazzled as he'd ever seen her. "I don't know what's going on, and really, _muggle lorries!_ What is the world coming to?" She threw her hands up in exasperation.

Muggle lorries? Dumbledore really looked at what lay beyond the gates that Hagrid was so determinedly protecting. Minerva was right; it wasn't one of the really enormous ones he'd occasionally seen but large enough, painted black with the now horribly familiar Aquila Industries logo proudly displayed in yellow on the front and sides.

"Where's Professor Carrow?" he asked as he made his way towards the gates, Minerva following in his wake. "Does anyone know where he is?"

"Isn't he doing something with the Defence Club at the moment?" Minerva scowled. "It would be such a shame to disrupt it, wouldn't it?"

"Truly a shame, my dear," Dumbledore smiled into his beard.

Minerva's lips actually twitched in amusement. "Frobisher," she barked at the nearest student, "go and find Professor Carrow and ask him to come to the Main Gates, pronto."

"Awww, Professor," the student actually whined and pouted, as he looked back at the excitement unfolding behind him.

" _Now,_ Frobisher," Minerva glared.

"Yes, Professor," the unfortunate Frobisher trailed off towards the Castle, before finally breaking into a sprint.

"Honestly," Minerva hrumffed, "they get cheekier every year."

"I'm ever so sorry about this," an oddly familiar vice called from beside Hagrid, "we're just making a delivery…and an installation for Mr Carrow."

Dumbledore blinked in surprise. Wasn't that…Lettice Strange… _Mistress Arithmancer_ Lettice Strange, he corrected himself. After all, she was no longer the tiny little Ravenclaw with pigtails he remembered blowing up a succession of mice in her first year in Transfiguration. On the positive side, her classmates had become rather good at ducking…and cleaning charms.

"A delivery," Minerva eyed the lorry suspiciously, "of what? What's he up to?" She folded her arms, obviously expecting the worst.

"Oh, nothing like that," Strange smiled, "this is Mr Carrow's satellite link and computer equipment that he ordered…and it gives us a golden opportunity to test and fine tune our equipment designs. There aren't many environments as highly saturated with magic as Hogwarts. We've been doing our best to replicate the thaum levels present here for our tests, but sometimes it's just better to go out into the field, as it were."

Satellite? Hadn't Carrow mentioned something about a satellite something recently, about putting it on the roof. Oh yes, the first staff meeting. Now he remembered, he smiled to himself.

"Ah. Here he is," Strange perked up. Striding past the gawking crowd, she pulled a letter from her robes and presented it to the giant man who was now smiling, a genuinely happy expression that transformed his face, the likeness with poor James painful to behold. Oh, this wasn't good.

"Headmaster?"

Dumbledore turned to find Rosmerta standing beside the lorry, looking extremely concerned. "Is everything all right?" She shot the lorry a suspicious look. "Should I call the Aurors?"

Behind her stood a small crowd of Hogsmeade residents who'd followed the muggle vehicles up to the Castle, mainly (Dumbledore suspected) for a really good nosy.

"I'm sure it will be fine," He gave the landlady a reassuring smile, "I do believe this has something to do with the business Mr Carrow runs in his spare time."

.oOo.

"… _beep…beep…this vehicle is reversing…beep…beep…beep…this vehicle is reversing…beep…beep…"_

It was rather considerate of it to actually warn people, Dumbledore mused as he watched the small lorry move backwards towards the main doors of Hogwarts, guided by a young man who looked rather familiar despite his extremely muggle uniform. It did seem rather curious that it didn't shout warnings at passersby when going forwards. A rather strange over sight; maybe he should point it out to them.

The lorry doors slammed as its occupants climbed out, another vehicle drawing up and disgorging its passengers, Dumbledore watching in fascination as the area in front of Hogwart's main entrance descended into organised chaos.

"Oh my," Dumbledore exclaimed as the back of the lorry opened and a section pivoted down until it was level. Someone scrambled up into the back and began to move something around, judging from all the banging and scraping sounds that began to issue from the vehicle.

"I'd always wondered how muggle lorries worked," he murmured to a very unimpressed looking Minerva, "isn't this exciting."

Minerva gave him a disapproving glare.

"See, even Carrow agrees with me."

Minerva glanced over to where the giant lump stood among the Aquila Ind. staff pouring over a sheaf of papers someone had handed him. He was never the most expressive of people, but right now he was practically vibrating with anticipation, his eyes glinting with something terrifying as he watched a large dish-shaped object be pulled carefully out of the lorry and onto the tailgate, the whole thing lowering to the ground in a stately fashion.

So that's how they did it, Albus smiled triumphantly, how very ingenious and all without levitation charms too.

Then a series of boxes appeared, people bustling around them, checking things and splitting them into groups seemingly at random. A strange frame like thing was disgorged next, its purpose difficult to discern, though it did appear to have a seat at the front, though could it possibly be for transport he wondered as some of the people manoeuvred the large dish on to the back.

Then more mysterious boxes made their appearance, which one of the very muggle looking people began levitating with their wand on to a strange yellow contraption, a sort of platform on thick chunky wheels. A tall and blocky young woman took the controls, and the entire thing moved towards the steps at the main door and began climbing them in a series of wheezing clunks, disappearing inside the building.

"Would it be alright if we installed the satellite dish on the roof?" Strange asked as she approached, some of her staff nervously hanging back behind her, "what with it being an historic building and all that."

"Oh…of course it's fine, I've already agreed it with Mr Carrow," Dumbledore smiled, "whatever you need, my dear."

" _Albus_ ," Minerva hissed, "why are you letting them do this?"

.oOo.

"So what does this do?" Dumbledore asked a finger hovering over one of the brass buttons on the front of the intriguing mahogany case that now sat on the desk in Carrow's teaching office.

The already cluttered room looked as if it had been hit by a storm in a cardboard factory, cardboard boxes, tape and other bits of packaging littering the floor, and flowing out into the Defence classroom itself.

Artemis had joined in, climbing inside one of the boxes, and was now carefully tearing it apart, her powerful jaws making short work of the cardboard, and adding to the mess. From the mural Carrow had painted at the other side of the training pit, heroic figures peered out in disapproval at the unusual disruption.

A grey metal box Dumbledore had been assured was a generator and that apparently required much fussing over, had made an appearance in one corner of the class room along with yards and yards of cable and wire. In the midst of all this Carrow hovered in anticipation, getting very in the way, shadowed by his young ward Mr Trebor.

"Does it have games?" Dumbledore distinctly heard the young man ask, which was very puzzling, so he turned back to the centre of activity. With a bit of tidying a number of strange and mysterious objects had been shoehorned on to Carrow's rather cluttered desk, a tall wooden case, mahogany probably, with finely engraved brass fittings and fretwork panels now sat at one end, a tangle of cables sprouting from its back, its front housing a display of mysterious buttons.

Beside it sat a blank picture frame on a stand, its surface dark and featureless and in front of that sat a keyboard that looked as if it had been liberated from a typewriter, one of the upright sort with lovely engraved brass fittings. Next to it was a curious cradle of metal filigree which held a highly polished glass ball. What this was all in aid of he couldn't even begin to imagine.

The Aquila Ind. personnel had turned Carrow's office into a hive of frenetic activity. Mysterious objects were being unpacked, pipes put through the wall, and wires appearing from seemingly nowhere.

The young witch who had set up all this fascinating equipment gave him a tolerant smile as she perched elegantly in Carrow's over sized chair, carefully spreading the lace skirts of her robes as she did so. Like Severus, she seemed to be one of those people who firmly believed you couldn't wear enough black; even her lips had been carefully painted black.

"All ready to go, Patricia," the workman behind them said from his fascinating maze of cables that hung in and around a series of boxes he'd very noisily fixed to the wall.

"Fantastic," the young witch, apparently Patricia, said. Stretching out an elegant be-ringed finger, she pressed one of the brass buttons on the front of the mahogany case. Deep within the case something sprang into life with a soft hum, lights flickering into life as it gave a strident beep. The picture frame flickered, and to Dumbledore's amazement lines of green text began to scroll up it, pausing occasionally before resuming their trek.

With a triumphant chime, the Aquila Ind. double headed eagle appeared in the middle of the screen ringed by crepuscular rays, before flickering to an image of textured stone littered with mysterious symbols.

Patricia seemed quite unfazed by all of this as she fiddled with the marble ball in its cradle. A black rectangle appeared on the screen containing even more scrolling green text…

"I'm ready to begin the initial connection," Patricia announced to the room as she began to tap away at the keyboard.

"What is this all in aid of…what does it do?" Dumbledore murmured as he sidled up to Strange where she stood consulting with one of her colleagues.

Strange blinked at him in surprise. "Oh…it's a computer. It's just a bigger, more powerful, but considerably less portable version of one of these." She waved the object she was holding. He gave it a dubious look; he'd been assuming it was a folder but apparently not. Dumbledore sighed to himself; what a remarkably unhelpful answer. Something of his feelings must have shown in his expression because Strange continued.

"So it connects to the Satellite dish on the roof via the cables. The satellite dish sends information to and receives information from a satellite which is currently in low Earth orbit."

"What…in space," Dumbledore reeled in shock, "among the stars."

Strange smiled. "Not among the stars precisely, but above Earth's atmosphere. At Aquila Ind. we have a satellite dish just like the one on the roof here but err…rather larger, so that means when everything is set up we can send all sorts of information back and forth."

"Oh," Dumbledore blinked, "…thank-you."

Strange gave him a polite smile.

"Please forgive an old man's memory," Dumbledore gave her a hopeful smile, "but I cannot for the life of me recall the young lady Patricia, or what House she was in. Maybe she attended school elsewhere, Beauxbatons maybe, and I'm just getting confused. Age you know."

Strange shook her head with a laugh. "Patricia is non-magical. In fact, she's about as un-magical as it's possible to get and still be alive. So, no…she didn't attend Hogwarts, rather her local High School and then University, before entering into an apprenticeship with us."

Dumbledore stared in disbelief.

"Yes," Strange continued fiddling with her official ID, "we're a curious mixture of magical and non-magical and everything in between. I've never worked somewhere so creative before. It's so exciting." She smiled broadly.

. .oOo.

Timothy winced as Bradely slammed into the training mats, sprawling uncomfortably. Talk about pain and humiliation. In a fit of something, Wulfric and Chuddy had decided to attempt the impossible and improve the lad's hand to hand combat skills. The lad could virtually sing in Morse code and his field maintenance skills for his radio pack were nothing short of magical, but a martial artist he was not.

Below in the duelling pit Juno and Athena were introducing the new girl to the delights of the short sword. Under Healer Savage's tender loving care she was slowly regaining some semblance of health after being shut in a disgusting cage in that illegal lab for who knew how long. She was never going to be normal again, the damage caused by being forcibly infected with an altered form of vampirism permanent, the nightmares devastating in their intensity and frequency.

But despite everything the new girl was doing her best to forge ahead and reclaim her life. She was certainly taking to the fighting arts like a duck to water, enthusiastically copying the basic sword drills that Athena demonstrated to her while Juno corrected her stance and grip. He suspected a determination never to be so helpless again.

It was strange, Timothy thought as he fiddled with his cigarette lighter and the pack of Black Russians, this was almost…homely, comfortable…and could he sneak off for a crafty smoke…maybe…

"Glad I talked my way out of that," Percy said with a laugh as he nodded towards where Bradely was now tentatively trying to get out of a hold-down.

Timothy managed to suppress his startle reflex, but only just, sending his oblivious secretary a reproachful glare.

"Yeah," Percy continued as he juggled his armful of folders and a data-slate, "learning to shoot is one thing but that…not a chance…here it is," he pulled out a sheath of paper in triumph, "initial proposal for private police force for Godric's Hollow," he handed it over.

Wonderful, more bloody paperwork, Timothy groaned inwardly as he gave the proposal a quick scan. It looked all right, but could they carry it off…and there was all the different regulations they were going to need like…

"We need something like Trading Standards on board with this," he said.

Percy looked puzzled for a moment but quickly rallied. "Right…let me make a note of that…" he juggled his armful round a moment so he could scribble something on his data slate, "I've got the report on all that paperwork we confiscated from the lab raid too." He passed over a fat file.

"Sub-contracting…that's rather muggle isn't it,"Percy commented as Timothy began to flick through the file, "the man in charge of the lab, Reginald Smith, he wasn't directly under the service of this possible…Dark Lady, he was getting contracts from her and all sorts of people for illicit potions production, research, spell creation…you name it. There's another curious thing as well," Percy carried on, "his mum, Vera, was doing all his accounts. She did a really good job too, very thorough, made things much easier for us."

"Family business, huh?" Timothy smirked.

"Indeed," Percy agreed as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. Much to Timothy's intense jealousy, Percy had discovered Marks & Spencer's and was currently wearing an incredibly boring navy blue jumper.

"We know, of course, about the experiments on humans," Percy said, giving him a sharp glance, before looking around carefully to make sure the new girl was well out of ear shot "Well…they were on _her_ orders, as far as I've been able to figure out Vera's code for their clients."

"Right," Timothy said wondering where this was going.

"They seem to be part of research into human transformations in general, and the Animagi transformation specifically. One of the victims who didn't survive was actually a registered animagus, and they managed to get him stuck between forms…and alter it at will. The notes are particularly…" Percy grimaced in disgust.

"Quite."

Percy gave him a tight smile. "There's a whole load of potions research related to it as well, but it's Mastery level at least, quite beyond me. I was wondering…R&D?"

"Yes, R&D," Timothy nodded as he flipped through the report, "and we'll emphasise the need for strict confidentiality."

"Right," Percy made another note on his data-slate, "if you turn to page…367 you'll find a list of the lab's suppliers…some of course are quite legitimate businesses, but others…specialise insome of the more hard-to-find ingredients they needed, as well as various objects…materials…ingredients…I thought you'd find it interesting."

"I don't suppose Vera made note of this Dark Lady's contact details?" Timothy asked hopefully as he glanced over the list.

Percy rolled his eyes and shook his head.

What a shame, that would have made life considerably easier…

"The Aurors busted the Pointless Alley gang last week for illegal importation of Quetzalcoatl feathers," Timothy pointed out, "and this one…I'm certain she's been murdered. Did you get dates of transaction…contact with these? Who's the most recent?"

"Oh, erm…yes," said Percy, "yes, someone called the Fox Lady is the most recent contact for erm, imports, according to Vera's records. But if you want more human remains then they'd been getting them from Annie "the blue hag" Haggis."

"Who lurks in the more touristy part of Knockturn," Timothy shook his head with a snort of laughter, "she's unbelievable she is, hiding in plain sight among all the fakers and confidence tricksters out to rip-off the wealthy looking for a little adventure. Last time I saw her she was hanging around outside Borgin & Berks selling "human" ears.

"Who's this Fox Lady then?" Timothy asked, "based in…Birmingham. That's a very muggle…"

"Healer!" Juno's panicked bellow cut through the conversation. Rushing to the balustrade that surrounded the duelling pit, they peered over to find Juno and Athena crouched down beside the new girl who had slumped to the floor, both obviously extremely worried.

"What have you idiots done _now_?" Healer Slaughter roared as he emerged from his office like some sort of avenging angel. Storming across the training mats, he launched himself down the steps into the duelling pit, his shoulder bag of potions and other medical paraphernalia bouncing on his hip.

"Honestly, how none of you have managed to kill yourselves I've no idea," he grumbled as he strode across the sand to the downed day-vampire.

"What happened?" the healer snapped as he began casting diagnostic charms on the new girl's prone form.

Juno and Athena exchanged worried looks as everyone began gathering round to take in this not unusual spectacle. "We were just starting another round of grappling when she started complaining that she felt whoozy, so we decided to finish off and start on some lighter hand-to-hand techniques when she started staggering," Juno shrugged helplessly.

Athena nodded. "I almost didn't catch her in time, her arms and legs were twitching and everything. Really strange, especially since I thought we'd been taking it easy on the new girl…ease her in to things, considering what she's been through physically. Not that that really matters for vampires; I wasn't aware they could get unfit like that."

"Nor me," Juno agreed.

"Right," Healer Slaughter said as he finished his run of tests charms with a frustrated growl, "so neither of you idiots actually managed to punch in her the head then?"

"Vampire, remember," Athena said, obviously less than impressed with the Healer's attitude, but Slaughter wasn't taking any notice. "That's strange," he muttered, "I wonder…" he began rooting around in his bag, pulling out a lance and some clearly muggle items. The lance failed to make an impression on the new girl's finger. "Bloody vampires," Healer Slaughter muttered, "right." Grabbing the new girl's hand, he jabbed her finger into one of her fangs, causing her to yelp in protest as a bead of blood appeared. Grabbing the muggle style plastic tub, he pulled out a narrow strip of what appeared to be paper, dabbing it against the injury before it had a chance to heal.

"What are you doing?" Percy dared to ask as Healer Slaughter slotted the paper slip into a hand-held device sitting back on his heels to wait.

"Doing my bloody job," the Healer growled. "Ah," he almost grinned as the small machine beeped, "no wonder…that explains it. Who's eaten recently?"

"What explains what?" Timothy asked suspiciously.

"She's got seriously low blood sugar, you fool," Healer Slaughter snapped, "and you won't do as a blood donor either, considering your ridiculous dietary habits."

"Low blood sugar," Timothy muttered in puzzlement, ignoring Wulfric's muffled sniggers.

"Right, _you_ ," Healer Slaughter pointed at Bradely who went pale and began backing away nervously. "You'll do. I saw you stuffing your face with donuts earlier."

"What? But, but…" Bradely stuttered, trying to shuffle unobtrusively out of the way until Chuddy intervened.

"I bet your blood sugar's sky high at the moment," Healer Slaughter gave him a nasty grin, "that's just what this young lady needs at the moment. Give me your wrist."

"What?" Bradely gasped, now utterly bewildered.

Healer Slaughter grabbed his arm, yanking him forward. "She needs to feed, you fool," he snapped, slashing Bradely's wrist and shoving the oozing mess under the new girl's nose despite the man's protests. The reaction was immediate, as the new girl lunged forward, latching onto the wrist before Bradely could do little more than squeak in surprise.

"Do we prise her off before she kills him?" Juno wondered aloud as Hecate messily drank from the man, blood and saliva dripping down her chin. "Heaven knows none of us can do Morse-Code like he can."

"About…now," Healer Slaughter said grabbing the aide's arm, "try and force her jaw open," he snapped.

"Easy for you to say," Juno snarled, as she tried to force her thumbs into the hinges of the day-vampire's jaw.

Bradely screamed as his arm was torn away from the new girl's fangs leaving the day-vampire hissing angrily as the source of her sustenance disappeared.

"Girly, _Girly!_ " Athena snarled as she snapped her fingers in front of the angry vampire's face.

"Wha…what happened?" the new girl asked slowly, blinking in bewilderment as she looked around at the gathered people.

Healer Slaughter snorted with laughter as he saw to Bradely's arm. "There you go," he said, "take this." He shoved a vial of blood replenisher into the stuttering man's hands. "You can go and finish off the rest of the donuts now. As for you…" he turned to the new girl with a growl.

"Hmmm…I need to do more tests. Obviously, what those idiots did to you had unforeseen ramifications for your continuing good health and I have a suspicion…but first, more tests."

The new girl groaned.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The atrium of the Ministry was deserted when he entered, the many fireplaces dark, his footsteps ringing in the silence as he strode past the hording that still surrounded that awful statue.

Carrow nodded in greeting to the very bored looking young man at the security desk as he made his way towards the lifts. Grimacing, he managed to squash himself into one of the ridiculously small things, his head hunched uncomfortably under the ceiling. The lattice door closed behind him with an obnoxiously loud clatter. He would much prefer to take the stairs like a civilised person, but the Department of Mysteries didn't seem to be accessible that way, not that he'd been able to find out anyway, so the dratted lifts it was. He growled as he jabbed the button for the ninth floor.

The lift dropped alarmingly as he braced himself against the walls due to a lack of anything sturdy to hold onto. Blasted, stunted, normal sized…he ground his teeth in frustration.

" _Level Eight, unfashionable sub-basement, Department for Magical Maintenance and the Lair of the Senior Under-Secretary to the Minister for Magic,"_ a female voice announced, managing to sound as if it was insulting his intelligence. Much to Carrow's acute annoyance, the grill slid open with a rattle to reveal a familiar corridor now painted in a nice institutional pale green. Corkboards had been installed and were now displaying missives and important notices to his staff while nearby, after much haggling and campaigning from the muggle staff, a couple of vending machines had been installed. One dispensed hot caffeinated drinks when appeased with the correct prayers and a thump to the upper left corner, while the other was filled with a baffling array of confectionary his staff seemed to believe were important for morale. After an initial phase of complete bafflement, the magical staff had descended on the two machines like locusts.

The grill seemed to take an eternity before it finally slid shut with a clatter and the infernal contraption began descending once more.

" _Level Nine, Department of Mysteries,"_ the condescending voice cooed.

With a poorly concealed snarl, Carrow wrenched the lift door open and eased himself out into a very plain corridor, lit only with torches placed in brackets at intervals along the stone walls, their blue light giving the corridor an eerie cast. He snorted, unamused; it never ceased to amaze him just how desperately these people wanted to cling to an illusion of their recent past.

At the end of the corridor was a plain black door. With a put upon sigh, Carrow opened it, heaving himself through the ridiculously undersized opening. Beyond lay a circular room lined with doors, a very black circular room, even the floor of which had been polished to a liquid like shine. He had to approve of their sense for drama, though he would have added pictures, or statues maybe, between the doors, something suitably pious, preferably of the grimmer martyrs. They would certainly do things for the ambience.

Carrow barred his teeth as he slammed the door shut behind him. Around him the room began to spin, the doors disappearing in a blur as the blue torches left blue streaks before his eyes.

Surprised and extremely unhappy, Carrow shook the afterimages from his eyes as the room settled down again. He narrowed his eyes; now, of course, he had absolutely no idea which door he had entered from. A clever solution to security, he would give them that, but not infallible. Marching forwards, he worked his throat, stimulating his Betcher's gland, feeling his mouth fill with the familiar sour metallic taste. It seemed a waste, but needs must…

Using a finger, he drew a gothic number one on the door using the highly toxic and corrosive saliva. The surface finish of the door bubbled and hissed, and the resulting number was slightly, to Carrow's eyes, misshapen, but it appeared to be permanent.

"What do you think you're doing?" an indignant voice sounded down by his chest.

Looking down, Carrow found that a grey heavily robed figure had appeared by his feet, glaring up at him. It was hard to tell, as there seemed to be some sort of obscuring magic on the person's hood that hid their face rather effectively.

"We've _heard_ things about you," the person growled, his or her voice oddly distorted, though Carrow had a suspicion that this individual was actually male...but he wasn't banking on it.

"What are you here for?" the person demanded.

Carrow considered his options; he could always fob this person off with something, or he could leave and come back later, or he could just tell them…

"I am here to retrieve a prophesy relating to myself," he said.

"Is that _all_?" the cloaked figure seemed extremely annoyed. "Why didn't you just make an appointment like a normal person?"

He could have made an appointment?

"Well, are you coming or not?" the robed individual growled. Seemingly picking a door at random they threw it open marching into the space beyond. Carrow followed them suspiciously, easing himself through the inadequate opening.

The sparkling light beyond left him blinking as he sidled through the door to find a room filled with clocks. Wall clocks, mantle clocks, clocks in cases and ones with a multitude of weights hanging beneath them on chains, clocks with automata, a water clock even, none of them as fine as the one he had gifted the school, of course.

What was this all in aid of? Carrow frowned, grinding his teeth in growing frustration. Now logically, all prophecies would be recorded in serious looking leather bound tomes, by date, and there would be an automatically updating index of names. But of course this was the magical world, filled with people for whom the idea of logic was probably akin to some strange mythical creature…

Motion towards the back of his room caught his attention, and he stalked forward, eyes narrowed suspiciously. Of all the Emperor cursed things…a large bell glass, nearly as tall as himself, stood at the end of the room, but it was the content that was…problematic.

He edged closer, as the contents of the bell glass swirled upwards once more, aging as it did so…a small jewel like bird, tiny, glittering in the swirling golden dust within which it was caught…and then it began to sink receding and shrinking as it dropped towards the bottom until it became a tiny speckled egg again…time, they were studying time here. Could they…send things, objects…. _people_ through time? He could return…

"Leave it be," his chaperone growled from beside his elbow giving him a very pointed glare he could actually feel through the obscuring charm of their hood.

"Fine," he muttered stepping away. He hadn't been interested anyway…

The robed person gave a snort of amusement before striding over to a door hidden beyond the bell-jar. Carrow eyed it suspiciously. Shoving his way through the under-sized door, he found himself in another generously proportioned space, predictably lit with the ridiculous blue torches. This one was filled with rows and rows of shelves, filled with small and dusty globes, each one with a small label affixed to the shelf. He leaned in closer; _M.N to N.F Anathema (?)_

He turned at the sound of a meaningfully cleared throat to find the robed figure looking distinctly annoyed. "Yours is further down this way," they said, before smartly walking away down the rows of shelves, before turning a corner. Carrow followed after them.

 _S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D. Dark Lord and (?)Harry Potter_.

"This is it?" Carrow gave the shorter man an enquiring glare.

"I don't see any others with your name…old name on. Do you?" Carrow had a suspicion that they were rolling their eyes under their layers of cloak and concealing charms. Utterly unimpressed, Carrow picked up the small and extremely delicate looking globe, slipping it into his pocket before the robed figure could object.

To his intense annoyance, the grey-cloaked person escorted him all the way back to the lifts.

.oOo.

"Come in, come in…what can I do for you, Allesandor?" Dumbledore looked up from the paperwork littering his desk, doing his best to ignore the rustling as all the portraits behind suddenly found better places to be, just in time to see a large hand put down a small globe like object in the middle of it all.

Dumbledore stared at the prophecy globe where it sat in the middle of his desk; it looked so unassuming. That it had caused so much trouble, pain and suffering…

"I do believe," Carrow boomed, "that it would be best for it to be destroyed."

Dumbledore relaxed back in his chair, watching Carrow carefully as the large man gazed out the window, taking in the fresh fall of snow, seeming almost as remote as the mountains that rose up in the distance. "I must admit I'm rather surprised that you haven't already," Dumbledore said.

"And have you concerned about its sudden disappearance? No, you might have resorted to doing something foolish," Carrow said as he made his way back, coming to loom over the desk once more. Picking the prophesy globe up once more, he placed it on the floor. There was a small shriek and whisper as his considerable bulk came down on the fragile glass, crushing it into dust on the stone flags.

"There," Carrow rumbled in satisfaction, "'tis done."

Dumbledore heaved a sigh; at least that was one less thing for him to worry about, he supposed. "Could I persuade you stay for a cup of tea?" he smiled up at Carrow.

"You and your Order will stay away from this Dark Lord and his allies?" Carrow asked, though it sounded more like a statement.

Dumbledore paused; should he? There were so many things going on here, not just the fact that Voldemort was back even in a twisted fashion, but also reassuring the Order that he…they were doing something…able to do something…

"You do not understand," Carrow growled, obviously frustrated, "this is so far beyond your experience…"

. .oOo.

This was a case of if you wanted a job done properly you were best doing it yourself. Fudge scowled as he strode into the Atrium of the Ministry. Honestly, why were people being so uncooperative? All he wanted was a name.

But nobody would tell him, changing the subject, suddenly finding urgent errands they needed to do, some of them utterly ridiculous. He was fairly certain that budgerigars didn't need taking for walkies, but he was a little hazy about these strange muggle pets. Even his secretary wouldn't help him, instead giving him one of her most disappointed stares until he was forced to leave before he looked like a complete idiot.

It had all been very frustrating and he'd been on the verge of giving up until he'd had a brainwave. Why not go and ask Security himself? He'd even managed to give Faulks the slip by telling him he was just nipping to the lavatory.

He'd jauntily set off down the corridor and then when he was certain no one was watching (especially nosy secretaries) he'd turned right instead of left and nipped into one of the lifts. A cunning plan well realised, he chuckled to himself as he strode up to the security desk.

"Minister Fudge," the new recruit manning the wand-weighing desk looked up in surprise, "may I help you?"

"Ah yes," Fudge bounced on his heels as he looked round the atrium, the fountain still hoarded off, the boarding now covered in various notices and signs and even the odd advert. It was about time they did something about that.

"Yes," he puffed up importantly, "I was wondering if you could look something up for me…an incident with a young man failing the ah, entrance exam and having to be physically removed from the Ministry."

A look of understanding flickered across the young man's face. "I'll see what I can do for you, sir." He turned back to his desk, apparently believing the matter finished with.

"Today, preferably now," Fudge frowned at the apparent lack of respect. Honestly young people nowadays, when he was a lad…

Hiding his reluctance, the young man reached under the desk, pulling out a large, leather bound tome and plonking it on the desk with a soft thump. Ah, the famed _Record of Incidents_ , everything from a plague of frogs in the Atrium in 1762, to an American family of tourists in 1983 who'd wandered in and assumed it was some sort of theme park, to a rather nasty incident just months ago involving someone's pet fwooper getting loose within the Ministry, were all carefully recorded inside. It really was a wonderful record of the daily life of the Ministry.

The young man pulled his wand out and began tapping the spine, muttering under his breath. Under his ministrations the book flipped open, pages riffling wildly.

"There. I've set it for this week, sir," the young man looked up at him expectantly.

"Oh…er yes, excellent," Fudge smiled, "I believe the incident was quite recent, over the last month or so…"

Nodding distractedly, the young man began to examining the book occasionally turning a page, a long finger tracing down the list of entries.

"…yes, he'd come to the Ministry expecting a job, after all his father works here," Fudge carried on, "and then all this bother with the Entrance Exam. He failed it, as if anyone expects to do tests outside of school, and that was that. He was understandably upset…"

The young man gave him an indecipherable look. "Do you mean Caspian Glossop?" he asked slowly. "That does sound a lot like him…there was an incident…"

Fudge blinked in surprise. "Glossop?" But that would be Benedict Glossop's boy. No wonder the lad had expected a position at the Ministry, what with his father being Senior Treasurer, just like _his_ father before him. In fact, if he remembered rightly, the Glossop family had been involved with the Ministry's finances since there had been a Ministry. Glossops and gold went together like goblins and…and…

"Sir," the young man was looking up at him with polite irritation now, "I've found the relevant incident report."

"Oh, wonderful," Fudge chuckled hoping nobody had noticed his mind wandering.

"Right," the young man gave him a sideways glance, "Incident No. 142/1995…proceeded as normal. Observed angry shouting near departmental lifts which drew closer….young man (later identified as Caspian Glossop) exhibiting angry and agitated behaviour while attempting to argue with the security personnel on duty…

"They weren't arguing back?" Fudge asked, quite perplexed.

"Well, no. It's very important to stay calm in these situations," the young man explained, "so they don't escalate. All part of our training." He gave Fudge a tight smile.

Oh, the training, Fudge grimaced, another one of Carrow's little changes. The Ministry's security had been perfectly adequate before, had been that way for decades. Why Carrow felt the need to change everything he touched…

"…the argument unfortunately escalated when a number of junior clerks returned from their lunch break. Glossop began shouting anti muggle-born slurs relating to the Entrance Exam as they passed, meanwhile drawing his wand in an attempt to cast…security personnel intervened, wrestling him to the ground and restraining him there…charged with a Breach of the Peace and Inciting Anti-Muggle-Born Sentiment…and that's it." The young man looked up at him expectantly.

"Goodness! Well…thank-you for your assistance!" Fudge gave a polite nod, and turned away, walking towards the lifts, lost in thought.

Fudge shook his head sadly as he waited. This was all a terrible mess, a young man from a good (and well connected) family denied a prestigious position. He might very well be able to use this to his advantage against Carrow and his minions, for surely the Glossop Patriarch was furious at his progeny being denied something that was theirs by birthright. Yes, surely he'd find a sympathetic ear willing to listen and even help him in bringing Faulks down a peg or two.

As the lift doors began to close behind him he was sure for a moment that he saw a familiar dark and gaunt figure talking to the young man at the Security desk. He blinked; no, he'd been imagining it. Truly, he was getting almost as paranoid as Old Mad-Eye Moody; he chuckled to himself as the lift began to descend, paper memos rustling as they flitted about above his head.

.oOo.

To his surprise and delight, Benedict Glossop was still in his office, hunched over his desk, quill scribbling across parchment, despite it being so late in the afternoon. Yet another one of those tall gaunt men, Fudge sighed, just like his father had been. Unfortunately, he had always more resembled his mother (like a cottage loaf, she'd always said).

Benedict Glossop looked up from his work, his expression turning politely wary as he took in the identity of his visitor. "Minister Fudge, what can I do for you today?"

"Ah yes…well," Fudge gave the man an uncomfortable smile which wasn't returned. "I'm very sorry to hear about your son. Such a tragedy that, err, Carrow's reforms should deprive him of his rightful employ…"

Glossop senior frowned. "Rightful employ?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes of course," Fudge nodded, "Glossops _belong_ at the Ministry, after all."

"Really, Minister," Glossop practically sneered.

Fudge ignored it and soldiered on. "Exactly. I'm sure your son would be an asset to whatever department he chose to join…"

"Minister Fudge, forgive me for interrupting," Glossop senior said icily, "my _son_ is currently reaping the reward of his own arrogance and entitlement, while dragging the family name through the mud of every Knockturn pub, gambling den and whorehouse he can find. He was given every opportunity to prove himself, and he has failed to do so. His current predicament is entirely of his own making…"

"But," Fudge tried.

"…Both his mother and I tried to instil a good work ethic in him from a young age, but to no avail. No matter how many times we explained to him that things weren't just going to be handed to him on a plate…" he grimaced, dismissing the thought with a frustrated wave of his hand. "I can assure you, Minister, he doesn't deserve a job within the Ministry."

"But…" Fudge tried again.

"No buts, Minister," Glossop glared at him, "my son lacks the work ethic and morals to fit in with the Ministry that we are building here, and that is the end of it. If only he were more like his sisters…" He shook his head with a frustrated sigh.

"What if…" Fudge tried again, even as his hopes began crashing down around him.

"Good afternoon, Minister," Glossop senior snapped, as he went back to his paperwork.

Fudge shuffled away, feeling quite despondent. What did he do now? Glossop quite clearly wasn't going to help him. So much for _family first_ …mind you, if Caspian Glossop was fooling around in the entertainments of Knockturn, then he was going to need a steady flow of Galleons. And if Daddy had cut the purse strings, surely an enterprising young man would be willing to take on a little job in exchange for some gold?

. .oOo.

Brown did not appear for her detention. It was infuriating, but to be expected for someone of her character.

This particular evening there had been a feast dedicated to some Heathen festival complete with decorations of bats and floating orange vegetables…pumpkins, which he had of course avoided. He had vague shadowy impressions from his distant childhood, of his cousin dressed up in some ridiculous costume waddling along gleefully while carrying a large bag stuffed with sweet treats of some kind. The indistinct feelings of resentment and sadness, and childish anger that went with these faded memories were rather disconcerting and so he dismissed them sharply.

Brown was not in the Great Hall; he stood in the entrance eyes rapidly working along each table, ignoring the students that sidled past him on their way back to their dorms.

Where did people go when they wished to hide? Somewhere they felt safe, somewhere familiar…to the Gryffindor common room, then. He turned on his heel scattering students as he strode towards the main stairs and his target.

The Fat Lady had apparently developed something seriously wrong with her eyes, considering the rapid blinking she appeared to be afflicted with.

A tsunami of sound crashed over him as the door swung open revealing the warm and cosy interior of the Gryffindor common room packed with students still enervated from the sugar rush of the feast.

"… _not going!"_

"…Lav, you've got to! The more you put it off the worse his punishment will be. Carrow's _really_ strict," Padma practically shouted at her friend, obviously deeply concerned.

"Quite right, Miss Patil. Indeed I am," Carrow smirked at the stunned Gryffindors as they all turned round to stare at him. In a corner, Hermione looked up from her book, and glanced at Brown for a moment, before returning to the joys of _Advance Transfiguration for the Perplexed_.

"Come along, Brown," Carrow said into the crypt-like silence, "the longer you put it off, the longer your detention gets."

Brown slowly rose from the red brocade pouf she'd been slumped on, shuffling forward as if she were walking to her doom. Such drama over so little.

"March, Brown," he growled, utterly unimpressed, as she dragged herself into the corridor.

Reaching the classroom, he thrust a practise blade into her hands, ignoring her horrified expression. "Rest assured, Brown," he leant down until they were almost nose to nose, "I will never give you _lines_." He sneered the word. "Now, _in_."

Shoving the stuttering and extremely reluctant young woman into the duelling pit, he activated the combat servitor (on its lowest setting. He wasn't _that_ cruel) and raised the wards designed to keep in the more interesting creatures he liked to fight.

Predictably, Brown screamed and dropped the blade, cowering against the wall of the pit as the servitor stalked closer clanking and hissing as it went, the nostrils of its nose, one of its few remaining human features, flaring as it caught her scent.

And then it pounced, Brown only just ducking in time, as knife like talons scoured the wall of the pit just inches above her head. Picking herself up, she ran screaming around the edge of the pit, trying to scramble out, only to scream again as the wards delivered a painful shock.

Carrow gently rocked on his heels, humming under his breath a triumphal hymn of death and destruction to the enemies of Humanity. Maybe he should read inspirational scriptures to the girl, bolster her spirits and encourage her in right thinking. Throne knew she needed it.

"Pick the blade up and fight, Brown," Carrow glared down at the panicking young woman, "show me what you're made of. Fight the fear, fight the weakness that's overwhelming you."

The servitor launched again, catching Brown across the scalp, blood now marring her hair as she scrambled back across the duelling pit, frantically throwing herself at the practise blade, almost dropping it in her haste as she fumbled with it clumsily.

Gripping it in both hands, she held it before her, the tip of the blade trembling madly. It was almost as if she expected the servitor to obligingly impale itself for her.

The servitor went in for the kill, swiping and snapping as Brown screamed and cringed, eyes screwed tightly shut as she desperately thrashed in the general direction of the servitor. She even managed to score a few lucky hits. The servitor backed off, circling its now slightly more dangerous prey.

Brown stood there shaking and heaving, on the verge of collapse, eyes wide as she followed the movement of the mechanical creature with the tip of her blade.

The servitor lunged and screaming, Brown buried the blade in to its torso, the servitor slumping to the side as it powered down. Shaking and sobbing, Brown slumped to the floor.

"Hmm," Carrow frowned, "it will do, I suppose…" He jumped down into the pit, ignoring the sting of the wards, pacing over to the servitor to inspect the damage. The training blade easily came free, revealing not too much damage. Excellent.

"I think another round or two, just to be sure" he smiled down at Brown, her almost hopeful look disappearing like smoke on the breeze.

"Carrow… _Carrow!_ " the shouting from his office had an edge to it, and when he peered into the cluttered room he found Madam Bones' face floating among the glowing logs of the fireplace.

"Thank Merlin," Bones sighed as she caught sight of him, "I know you're still recuperating but there's been an international incident that desperately needs your particular skills urgently."

Finally, something to do, Carrow barely hid his smile. "Brown," he snapped at the tearful girl-child. "We will continue this detention another evening…"

Brown sprinted for the classroom door as if all the spawn of Chaos were after her.

"Madam, give me twenty minutes. I will be with you as quickly as I can," he said.

Madam Bones gave him a relieved smile.

.oOo.

"Dumbledore wasn't happy," Bones muttered to him as she did her best to keep pace with him.

He came to a grinding halt at the apparition point, the servos of his armour whining happily, skull totems clattering faintly as they swung on their chains. He was ready for battle, fully armed and armoured, his energy sword and plasma pistol comforting weights at his hip, the rotator cannon hanging from its strap at his back, the Purgatus of St Seraphim snaking lazily across his chest.

"The Headmaster's opinion in this case is immaterial," Carrow growled his voice made flat and metallic by the vox-castor of his helm. "There is work to be done this night."

As he reached an armoured finger towards the proffered port-key, a familiar blue beetle buzzed past his elbow, landing by his shoulder plate; obviously Skeeter could override her fear and loathing of him in the pursuit of a story. The port-key activated and he was jerked away in a swirl of colour and motion, before being dumped on his feet in a clearing.

Carrow swayed slightly, his pistol held ready as he took in his surroundings, deep forest, mainly birch trees, the ground already hard with frost, a light dusting of snow among the trees and beyond he could see the peaks of mountains looming up above the trees glistening in the faint moonlight.

"Scheiβe!" a voice exclaimed.

Carrow looked down, his plasma pistol pointing in the face of a startled and extremely unhappy foreign law enforcement officer. Behind him, his probable superior was glaring in disgust.

"Why do the English send _you_?" the gaunt man snarled, his beard jutting out angrily. "Always you cause mayhem." He turned on his heel, storming away up a narrow rocky path that weaved in between the trees and further up the mountain.

Carrow followed.

The path widened into a clearing where more personnel bustled about, pausing in their tasks as he strode past, the senior law enforcement officer now deep in an argument with several of his colleagues as he gestured wildly towards him. Beyond them lay some rather basic defences guarded by some nervous looking wizards and witches.

They appeared to be guarding the mouth of a cave, a crude opening into the mountain side.

Stepping over the pitiful defences he peered into the darkness of the cave, a cool breeze drifting from the playing over the surface of his power armour, bringing with it the scent of taint of corruption…

"Excuse me," a voice came from beside his elbow. Glancing down Carrow found the gaunt man standing there.

"I apologise for my outburst…" he sighed, "always when the English send you it means the absolute worst, but this…this is truly terrible…"

Unseen, Carrow raised an eyebrow.

The man hid a nervous swallow, trying to stay impassive. "Yes…this is Durmstrang. I am sure you have heard of it…"

Ah yes, Carrow looked at the tunnel with interest, one of the international schools that sent a team for the TriWizard Tournament…

"Initial reports suggest that something has happened to Headmaster Karkaroff…something distinctly unpleasant that infects those who get too close…we sent people in, but…" he shrugged helplessly.

Karkaroff…Death Eater…the Mark…taint…Carrow pulled the rotator canon round on its strap, readying it. "I'm going in," he growled, blood beginning to sing with the promise of battle. "If anyone comes out, hold them. Do not make physical contact with them. If they resist or fail to comply in any way, _kill them_."

"What…wait, _what?_ " the man's forced calm snapped, but Carrow paid no heed sprinting into the dark entrance.

.oOo.

"…help…" the whisper came from the darkness ahead, the nigh-vision of his helm giving the roughly hewn tunnel a green cast. "…help…help me…" the whisper came again followed by rustling as something dragged itself into view. A distorted twisted thing with insect legs but one clearly human arm flopping off its side brushing against the wall as it crept forward, pieces of red fabric still clinging to its abdomen. One terrified blue eye stared out of the ruin of its face, "…help…me…help me…" it sighed.

He gave it mercy, the roar of the rotator canon deafening in the narrow tunnel. Stepping over the pulped remains, he worked his way deeper into the mountain.

The tunnel abruptly ended in a large open cave. An entrance hall of sorts that must have been very impressive at one point but now was a scene of desolation. A crystal chandelier lay by his foot, a shattered ruin, the floor strewn with books and other abandoned belongings, a cloak, school bags. In among the scorched and slashed remains of tapestries lay crumpled forms, dead students, a number of law enforcement officers, their robes rent revealing the remains of dragon hide armour underneath. A teacher lay on his back, his face blank as he stared sightlessly up at the stalactites that hung down from above.

A battle was fought here; he brushed his armoured fingers over a streak of steel blue that gouged into the rock, leaving his fingers tingling from the psykic residue. Yes, the initial fighting had been intense and desperate here, but now…he considered the openings one by one.

This one…he barred his teeth as he sensed the stillness of the air, its staleness, the scent of death…this was the way.

It was as he began to come across classrooms that the resistance began, deformed figures stumbling out of the darkness towards him, remnants of Durmstrang's red robes clinging to their bloated and distorted bodies. More students, children infected by something terrible, their humanity torn away and replaced with something corrupt and rotten and utterly evil…

Changing prayers of purity, the cleansing roar of the rotator canon joining his litany of hate, he slowly moved forward, destroying all that was unclean.

The ribbon of the magazine chattered to its end, and he paused in an alcove to change it. From here he had two choices, to the left the smell of corruption and taint was clear and undeniable, but to the right…he could hear the faint sounds of the corrupted scrabbling and whispering, but also the distinct crackle and whistle of spell-fire. There was resistance still. Grinning manically, he checked the rotator canon one last time, before loping towards the sound of conflict.

This corridor led to another cave, an imperfect octagon in shape, a once grand and impressive space. Around its sides dark openings, framed by elaborately carved architectural details, led further into the mountain while ahead large double doors hung forlornly on their hinges, the opening blocked by a hurriedly put together barricade of furniture, chairs, tables, bookcases and cupboards all rammed together in an attempt to block the way through. A crude barricade that was currently under siege; the tainted ones were not deterred in the least by the wall of furniture and were even now attempting to climb up it, trying to pull it down, claw their way in.

Sizing up the situation, Carrow unsheathed his sword; such a pity the rotator canon would pulp that flimsy barrier, he would just have to make do, he smirked to himself as he activated the blade's energy field, blue fyre crackling along its length.

With a shout he charged, ploughing into the back of the thronging tainted, his blade slicing through them like hot steel through ice.

Even as the first of their numbers fell, they turned as one, lumbering towards him, tumbling off the barricade even as more came swarming out of the tunnels. He laughed delighted, adrenaline surging through his veins as he span and slashed and crushed his enemies in a bloody dance of death, blood and ichor pooling on the ground as the corpses of the damned built up around him.

Until there were no more; he came to a halt looking around for any sign of movement in among the carnage, his breath more heavy than he might have liked, a twinge of pain playing across his stomach that he pushed away in annoyance.

"Hey…hey…" a shout came from the barricade, "hvem er du?"

Carrow blinked, not a language he was familiar with, and he was fluent in four, with basic phrases in at least another six. It always paid to know what the serfs were gossiping about.

"I am with the ICW," he tried in English, "I am the expert sent by the British Ministry of Magic."

Apparently this wasn't reassuring…maybe if he tried another language, the Terran dialect of Low Gothic maybe…

"The ICW?" another voice shouted, "they are here?"

Ah, the resident English speaker. "Indeed," Carrow said as he eyed the remains of the chamber.

"There are more of these things," the voice shouted and Carrow got an impression of a pale face and terrified grey eyes from the gap between two bookcases.

"Yes indeed," Carrow agreed looking around hopefully. "Stay here. I will return momentarily."

"He…hey," Grey-eyes shouted after him, "we have children…students in here."

Carrow froze, was this some sort of trap.

"We need to get them out...to safety," Grey-eyes pleaded.

He could not sense any difference in the strength of the taint coming from beyond the barrier so strong was the general miasma that permeated the interior of Durmstrang. Could he risk it?

"Bring the barrier down, now," he growled bringing the rotator canon round to bear, just in case. On the other side of the barrier there was a small scream and a rustle of frantic movement, the battered furniture blocking the way beginning to move.

There were so few of them, Carrow grimaced when he took in the trio of teaching staff, one of whom was nursing a broken arm. Beyond them huddled between an overturned desk and a book case were five students of varying ages. All of them were exhausted, dirty and beginning to succumb to the effects of prolonged stress.

Delightful. A rescue and escort situation. Carrow grimaced within the confines of his helm. This was going to be fraught, and fiddly, and frankly he didn't have the time for it, as behind him he could sense the growing threat, the sick rotten feeling as the focus of all this destruction moved closer.

"Ms Skeeter," he hissed hoping the little beetle/journalist was prepared to work with him. The familiar blue glint of the beetle zipped over his shoulder pad, a slight thump signalling her return to human form. "Get them out," he growled to her turning his attention to the tunnel out.

Skeeter eyed him suspiciously.

"Please," he added, giving his weapons a quick check.

Skeeter had a glint in her eyes now and Carrow suspected the Daily Prophet was soon to be graced with another of her hard hitting, from-the-front-lines articles. Exclusive access to witnesses, first-hand accounts from the war zone…

"Fine," Skeeter glared up at him before storming over to the survivors. Carrow smiled to himself; obviously he was growing on her.

.oOo.

An over-optimistic, and probably heretical part of his mind, actually dared suggest that they would retreat from the confines of Durmstrang unmolested by the forces of Chaos, but of course these traitorous thoughts were soon shown for what they were. Things of course started to come apart just as Skeeter hustled the survivors into the corpse strewn Entrance Hall, within sight of the exit.

A low breathy moan came from the passage behind him causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end in anticipation. Something was coming, crawling out of the deep dark shadows of the mountain.

A stinking, raging tidal wave of anger, hate and pure corrupting taint slammed into his mental walls, his psy-hood crackling and sparking with blue warp-fyre as he reinforced his psychic defences.

"Skeeter," he boomed, "run."

The bony woman turned from where she was picking her way across the sea of corpses, her eyes wide with horror. She broke into a sprint towards the exit tunnel, the bewildered survivors trailing in her wake.

The corpses began moving, twitching and twisting and writhing like giant maggots, a sigh like the wind through grass passing over the morass as the shadow clawed its way ever closer.

Carrow slowly backed away towards the exit tunnel, kicking the odd flailing corpse out of the way, bringing the rotator canon round, giving the ammo levels one last quick check as he did so.

A scream came from behind him and turning he found to his annoyance one of the survivors, a boy of no more than twelve, had been too slow. A corpse had grabbed hold of him, biting his leg to the bone. Already his skin was paling, his movement becoming more erratic.

"Run you fool," Carrow snarled at the teacher who ridiculous enough to come back to rescue his charge, "he's already as good as dead."

He gave the boy mercy with his plasma pistol, the child's skull vaporising in the momentary heat of a small star. The teacher back-pedalled, his face a slack grey mask of horror. Scrambling, falling over his own feet he disappeared into the exit tunnel just as the thing that had once been Karkaroff finally pulled itself into the Entrance Hall.

It was a dark, shadowy thing, its form ever melting, pooling on the floor, and leaving shadows wherever it touched, its multitude of spindly legs pulling it forward as it screamed in challenge, its breath clouding the air.

Around it the corpses twitched and danced, limbs snapping and breaking into new and impossible positions as they began to scuttle crab-like across the floor towards him and the way out.

Carrow fired, strafing the scrambling undead as they piled towards him, reaching with clawed fingers to pull at his armour, his weapons…their bodies pulped under the heavy fire, oddly dry and desiccated as they disintegrated, adding a haze of dust to the already contaminated air.

The filters of his helm were audibly having to work now, removing even the smallest trace of contagion from the air his suit fed to him. When this was done with he was going to give his armour extra attention; he aimed a vicious kick at a contorted student who strayed too close, sending the body of the girl pin-wheeling into the cave wall with a sickening crack. Yes, he had the God Emperor by his side, how could he fail…no matter the seemingly overwhelming odds…he flicked away another body that got to close, the dead Auror's head exploding in a cloud of dust.

Chanting prayers of purity, he turned his fire on the abomination as it crept forward, bellowing over the roar of the rotator canon.

To his frustration and complete lack of surprise, the choking cloud of the foul creature's body absorbed his fire as if it were nothing…and then the rotator canon rattle to a halt. Cursing its timing, he ejected the magazine, reaching for the next one, only to find himself in a tug of war with the abomination for the rotator canon, a smoky tendril locked tight around the barrels, crushing them into uselessness.

He let the creature have it before it could pull him off his feet, the tendril crushing to the barrels to uselessness. Throne cursed creature, and this was the first time he'd taken it in the field. Snarling in frustrated rage, Carrow tossed the last magazine at the creature, (the one he had actually (sort of) had blessed by the God Emperor himself; he had placed it on the man's chair while he wasn't looking. Hopefully the Divine Bottom would have the desired effect.) The creature eagerly swallowed it.

Scrambling back in front of the exit, he drew his power sword, activating it with a thought as he settled into a defensive stance ready for the next assault, a slow cruel smile passed over his face as he took in the creature's condition. It appeared to be convulsing, wracked with pain as it attempted to cough up the blessed object, shrieking with pain, a sound like claws across the surface of his mind.

With a clatter the magazine made a reappearance, tumbling to a halt on the floor in a puddle of tar-like ichor, smoking slightly, leaving the abomination itself coughing and drooling thick tarry strings of phlegm that hissed as they landed on the floor.

Barring his teeth in a savage smile, Carrow brandished his power sword. With a bellow of deviance he charged forward, bringing the glowing blade around in a slashing arc at a grasping tendril of shadow, the backhand stroke catching the abomination in a knee joint. The spindly leg crumpled under the force of the crackling blade, disintegrating into black dust that hung in the air a moment.

But he was already moving, attacking in a flurry of slashes and hacks, forcing the vile thing to rear up exposing its (hopefully) more vulnerable underbelly, a dark shadowy stinking thing, but the creature was wise to his strategy, stabbing at him with its remaining legs, forcing him to dodge or risk being struck or drowned in the tar like drool that was now oozing down its front.

His blows seemed to do little to its smoke like body, and to his utter disgust he was beginning to fatigue. He was loathe to admit it, but he needed to finish this quickly before he was overcome, becoming yet another casualty in this infestation of corruption.

Forcing his tired limbs to comply, he thrust the power sword deep into where the thing's face should have been, sending a wave of pure psychic hate down the blade, the shadow parting momentarily as the creature shrieked in agony. There, deep in the shadows he could see what looked like a human eye, wide, pupil blown with abject inhuman terror.

He had found Karkaroff.

The Purgatas of St Seraphim slid smoothly from his chest, easily snaking down the narrow channel opened around the blade to wrap tightly around whatever was left of the man.

And then he was flung backward as the vile creature reared back, screaming in agony, its multitude of legs thrashing, one catching him full in the chest, sending him crashing into a heap of body parts, the blank eyes of a dead Auror glaring at him reproachfully even as he surged back onto his feet.

The creature was lying on its back now, its legs thrashing and twitching, tar like spittle flying off in every direction as its agonies sent it spinning in lazy circles.

Gathering his strength Carrow began chanting, directing his will to the Purgatus, to ensnare, to restrain, to enclose. The cloudy body of the creature boiled and rippled, leaving a filthy smear on the floor as it spun, disintegrating until all that was left was a drift of black powder and a puddle of tar like fluid. There, lying in the centre, ragged and broken, lay the remains of Karkaroff, a raw flayed thing, its limbs simple melted stubs, blackened bones protruding from the scorched flesh. Carrow slipped closer; was the man still alive?

Karkaroff's rib cage shuddered as he took a breath, a moan escaping into the stifling silence of the Entrance Hall…no, surprisingly still alive.

As Carrow approached, Karkaroff's eyes flickered open a moment, full of despair and pain, begging, but there was no possible help that could be given.

"May the God Emperor have mercy on your soul," Carrow murmured to the shell of a man. Grasping the hilt of his power sword in both hands, he slammed the tip down into the once-man's head, shattering his skull utterly. The Purgatus snaked back around his chest with a clatter that sounded thunderous in the stifling silence of the entrance hall.

Without a backward glance, Carrow strode towards the exit tunnel.

.oOo.

"We must burn it, it needs to be completely destroyed," Carrow growled at the crowd of horrified ICW personnel. He glared back at them in annoyance, at the sheer impertinence of questioning his judgement in this matter.

"…the school…"

"…but…but…"

"You cannot!" a man with close cropped hair and steel blue eyes snarled, practically bristling with rage, his friends gripping his arms to stop him from doing something foolish. "All the time you do this! Destroy! _Ruin!"_ He strained against his colleagues' grip.

The Head Wizard, his gaunt face pale, stepped to the front of the crowd giving the hot-head an unimpressed glare. "This is like that incident in Romania, isn't it?" he asked slowly, scratching at an ear, causing the flap of his head gear to flip up.

Carrow raised an eyebrow. "Indeed," he boomed, "the conditions within the school bear a resemblance and are irredeemable. To stop the infection from spreading we need to destroy the entire complex with fire."

The Head Wizard nodded sadly. "We burn it," he announced to his colleagues.

"What!" the younger man screamed finally wrenching himself from his friends' grip. "This is unthinkable, an outrage…"

"Unavoidable," Carrow interrupted.

"I will not!" the young man lunged for Carrow, only to be grabbed by some of his friends and dragged away kicking and screaming.

"We need promethium, and a lot of it," Carrow announced, cursing yet again the inadequate infrastructure of this archaic world.

"Fiend-fyre," the Head Wizard sighed, "I know not what this…promethium is, but I am sure that Fiend-fyre will be quite up to the task!" He glared up at Carrow as he stepped round him towards the entry tunnel.

Carrow watched carefully as the man drew his wand, and with a quiet incantation and sharp jab sent a stream of fiery creatures, a phoenix, a dragon, even a chimera, down the entrance tunnel and into the ruined Entrance Hall.

Soon smoke came drifting out, thick and choking as the magical fire took hold, spreading uncontrolled as it consumed the interior of the mountain, finding whatever escape-routes it could. Flames could be seen flickering all over the mountain, turning it into a glowing hellscape.

Around him the ICW team seemed to mourn the passing of the school but Carrow ignored them in favour of watching a section of the mountain near the east that was beginning to glow a dark red in his vision as it slowly increased in heat. With a roar a section of the mountain collapsed inwards as fire erupted skywards, salamanders dancing in among the flames.

A wail went up as one of the wizards broke down mourning the loss of his alma-mater, his colleagues comforting him as best they could.

"Durmstrang is…was a very prestigious school," the Head Wizard murmured, his expression stricken, "almost as old as Hogwarts…and now…"

"It is gone," Carrow helpfully finished for him, "but you will rebuild, you will continue."

"Sirs," a nervous voice came from behind them, "I'm sorry for troubling you but err…err, Mr Carrow's diplomatic credentials didn't come through from the British Ministry and, err..."

Carrow's inner bureaucrat cringed in acute embarrassment. Of all the things to overlook…

"I'm sure it's simply an over-sight on the British Ministry's part!" The Head-Wizard gave him a tight smile. "We are…quite aware of who you are, after all."

…as soon as Madam Bones had informed him of the mission, he had of course sent the correct notification to his Ministry office, who would of course have sent the standard request to the Department of International Cooperation, who should have…but obviously hadn't, did they have no pride in their work…Crouch, he snarled to himself unaware of the nervous glances the Head wizard and his underling were sending him, obviously Crouch could not be trusted, or intimidated into correct behaviour, the petty back-stabbing little meat-sack…

"My deepest apologies," he gave the nervous witch a small bow, "I will take the appropriate steps to ensure this situation does not arise again."

.oOo.

Crouch opened the bottom drawer of his desk, the one he'd hidden the bottle of Ogden's finest in, behind the boxes of spare quills and ink, but thought better of drinking more. There was a fine line between settling the nerves and being actively drunk, and his secretary had already been giving him carefully concealed looks of concern when he'd left around seven.

And then the memo had come through from the Monster's office, demanding he send out the documents authorising one of the bastard's murderous little jaunts, to Norway this time. Poor Norway. He opened the bottom drawer again, rifling through the boxes, grabbing the heavy bottle, pouring himself a generous measure.

He hadn't done it, he hadn't stamped the forms, he hadn't sent them through to the Norwegian embassy. After what that bastard had done to his son, he would _never_ work for him…never…he tossed back the whisky, barely noticing the small burp of flames as he poured himself another glass. Already he could feel himself relaxing, the tremor in his hands easing as the warmth of the whisky soothed his troubles away.

And now to go home to an empty house. If that bastard hadn't…his son…he gave himself a mental slap as he grabbed his briefcase, stumbling out of his office, his stride very deliberately straight and sober as he headed towards the lifts and the atrium. It wouldn't do to have the underlings see him slightly squiffy.

He climbed into the lift when it arrived with relief, jabbing the button for the atrium. Slumping against the wall, he sunk into a tired alcoholic haze only thinking of home now, and how much he was looking forward to his bed.

He barely had the energy to muster surprise when the lift juddered to a halt, the illumination flickering for a moment.

"What," Crouch hissed uselessly as he jabbed at the button for the atrium.

With a squeal of protesting metal, giant meaty fingers appeared around the screen door of the lift prying it open forcibly. Crouch backed away, trying to fight the mental fog away as he tried to wrestle his wand from his pocket. But it seemed to have jammed itself in an awkward diagonal, getting itself stuck in the seam. He wrenched at it frantically, cold sweat making its way down his spine, even as Carrow eased his impossible bulk into the suddenly too small lift, his eyes glacial, predatory, promising nothing but pain and oblivion.

"You bastard," Crouch screamed as he finally managed to free his wand, and jabbing it towards the giant man. "I won't work for you…"

Carrow lazily snapped it between his fingers as he bared his teeth in a predatory smile. "No, you won't."

.oOo.

He awoke with a start, his head pounding, his mouth dry, feeling and tasting like the underside of an old sock. Merlin curse it, how much whisky had he drunk, Crouch groaned to himself, his eyes stinging in the harsh light as he attempted to pry them open.

Blast it, how long had he been asleep? It couldn't be mid-day already, could it? An image of Carrow heaving himself into the lift rose unbidden in his mind and he bolted upright on the oddly narrow bed, cringing as his head objected strongly to the sudden motion the bed feeling oddly narrow…and hard…and the wall in front of him was grey…not stone...like that muggle building material, concrete.

He blinked, wincing as his eyes finally adjusted to the harsh flat light that came from a muggle light fitting on the ceiling; the narrow tube was as ugly and unforgiving as the rest of the small room he found himself in.

It was the greyest room plainest room he'd ever seen, the only furniture other than the glorified shelf that served as a bed were a metal toilet and basin in the far corner. Up on the wall, a shower head stuck out without so much as a screen or curtain of any kind to provide privacy.

Even the very basic garments he was clothed in, muggle stretchy things, were grey.

He stared blankly at the drain in the middle of the floor a moment, no he wasn't staying here. Heaving himself to his feet, head throbbing in protest he staggered over to the door, a heavy intimidating affair, devoid of handle, lock or any other obvious way of opening it. Though there did appear to be a hatch with a small shelf under it; he tugged uselessly for a moment before banging with his fists.

Cracking his knuckles on the metal painfully he began pounding away with the heel of his palm. "Let me out you bastard!" he screamed, slapping as hard as he could, "let me out you coward."

Eventually there was a rattle on the other side of the door, the hatch shooting open to reveal an old horse skull, its surface covered in gold filigree and runic inscriptions, the blue bale-fyre deep in its eye sockets glaring at him menacingly.

With a startled squawk he staggered backwards falling on his behind even as bony hands deposited a tray of food on the small shelf, the hatch clacking shut again.

"Oh Merlin," he groaned, burying his head in his hands. He was a prisoner, stuck in this tiny little grey world that was definitely not Azkaban.

.oOo.

The Great Hall seemed rather bare without the Halloween decorations, the steady trickle of students rather subdued. Snape smirked to himself, as he drank his third cup of coffee of the morning; there had been quite a few of the little brats in the Hospital Wing that morning, requiring stomach soothers due to excessive sweet consumption. Why the Headmaster encouraged such self indulgence in the middle of term-time Snape had never been able to work out.

At least the morning's classes would be quiet, he thought, as he divested the post owl of the day's edition of the Daily Prophet.

" _DISASTER AT DURMSTRANG"_ shouted the headlines, the front page being mostly taken up by a dark photograph of an apocalyptic scene, fire shooting skyward as cracks in the mountainside revealed a hellish inferno.

Skeeter, of course, he noted distractedly as he began reading.

"… _raised the alarm on All Hallows' Eve when a strange illness began afflicting staff and students alike…highly infectious…staff had been unable to raise Headmaster Karkaroff from his private quarters in many days…"_

"… _due to the severity of the situation, Norwegian Magical Law Enforcement called in specialists from the ICW…including our very own Senior Undersecretary Allesandor Carrow (currently on sick leave and teaching at Hogwarts)…"_

Snape glanced down the table to where the giant man sat, slowly and methodically eating his porridge. A cold feeling of dread building in his stomach, Snape carried on reading…

"… _Mr Carrow entered Durmstrang alone, intent on getting to the bottom of the affliction plaguing the school…"_

Snape bet he was, with sword, fists and any other weapons the giant bastard could get his hands on.

"… _reduced to mindless rabid monsters, intent only on transmitting the curse. They swarmed Mr Carrow in an attempt to infect him with their malady but he rebuffed them at every turn, destroying them…"_

And then Skeeter dove into an increasingly flamboyant and poetic description of Carrow doing battle with the inhabitants of the school. Snape read it all with a raised eyebrow; he'd call it exaggeration and probably mainly fictional except he'd seen the man do battle, seen what he fought against, and it was not a comforting thought….

"… _evidence suggests so far that the mysterious malady spreading through the school originated with Headmaster Karkaroff…transmitted through bites and other physical injuries…highly contagious…no known cure…magical in origin…turning the infected into inferi-like creatures that increasingly became more twisted in appearance and behaviour over time…"_

Phantom pain sizzled up his left arm, a stark reminder of what could have been. The Dark Mark. It was the bloody dark mark, and Karkaroff had been on his own, he'd no talent for potions or healing or anything like that, totally helpless against the encroaching darkness. He clutched as his left arm as the area where the mark had once been prickled and tingled sending shooting pain up his arm. He remembered how it had started, itching and then it had become inflamed, weeping pus as it turned into an open wound. He had done what he could with the not inconsiderable recourses he had had to hand, but that hadn't been enough.

He'd know really, hadn't been able to admit to himself at the time, that he was just days away from being overwhelmed by the infection when Carrow had dragged him away to his…friend.

If Carrow hadn't…if the infection had run its course, the photograph of the hellish mountain leered up at him from the front page. He stood abruptly, all appetite lost, uncaring as his chair clattered over, determined to exit the Hall as quickly as he could.

The small chamber on the other side of the staff exit was blessedly quiet and cool as he leant his forehead against the wall as he tried to get his breathing back under control. That could have been him, transformed into one of Carrow's vile monsters…stalking the halls of Hogwarts destroying everything in his…its path in a sickening bloody trail.

Was this making him feel calmer? No, it was not, he struggled to get his breathing back under control as he frantically searched through his pockets for a vial of calming draft; surely he had one on him, you never knew when you would meet a homesick Huffelpuff or a panicking pre-exam Ravenclaw…

Behind him came a rustle, oh wonderful, the Headmaster no doubt here to see him in his hour of mental meltdown. A rumbling grumble disturbed the quiet of the room as something not human padded past him to investigate an interesting smell across the room.

Snape caught the glimpse of white fur in the corner of his eye. Oh, wasn't that just great, Artemis, and if she was here then…he turned to find Carrow looming beside him in the quiet of the room, chilly green eyes watching him patiently.

On second thoughts, Snape tried to pull himself together a little, maybe the Headmaster wouldn't be so bad after all.

"You are…upset," Carrow rumbled softly.

No, really, Snape nearly snarled at the giant idiot. He gave a jerky nod, "that could have been here, we were _this close_ ," he held his fore-finger and thumb a hair's width apart, "to complete and utter annihilation."

"Yes," Carrow said apparently unmoved.

Snape ignored him. "So close," he groaned to himself, leaning against the wall.

"Yes, it generally is," Carrow edged closer, peering down at him, "the enemies of humanity are all around, hidden but so close you can reach out and touch them."

Snape swallowed nervously.

"That is what I do," Carrow smiled, a cruel predatory expression, "hunt those threats out and neutralise them; the threat from your mark is gone, and then I destroyed the threat at the Durmstrang School before it could spread to the surrounding population…because it would have."

Oh, Merlin; Snape looked up at him appalled.

"See," Carrow smirked, "you're already feeling better." He gave him what he obviously thought was a friendly pat on the shoulder before striding off humming to himself, Artemis padding along in his wake.

. .oOo.

The breeze sweeping across the rooftops was icy at best bringing a promise of frost with a topping of freezing rain.

"It's a good job we're not affected by the cold, isn't it, being, you know…technically dead?" Annie said cheerfully as she observed their target through omnioculars.

Caroline glared at her as she huddled under her cloak in the dark. "Speak for yourself," she grumbled, "the sooner we're back in the warm the better…and how did we get stuck with this thankless task again?"

"Because," Annie said, "Charles fell asleep on the roof and nearly rolled off into the alley. Not very covert."

"That would have given someone a headache," Caroline said, glaring thoughtfully at the boarding house they were currently observing.

Despite looking rundown, it was obviously heavily occupied, at this time of evening lights blazing from many of the windows. Some people could afford curtains or had improvised with old sheets. One person had even mended their cracked window glass with spell-o-tape.

A couple were putting their baby to bed in an improvised crib, little more than a large basket with old towels for a mattress. Above them, a young woman sat at her dressing table, brushing her long hair while reading a book.

"Isn't it time for his evening crap?" Caroline said. "Seriously, this man is so _dull_."

"Yes, it certainly is," Annie said as she peered through the omnioculars. "Oh look, there he goes." She followed him as he plodded down the stairs, disappearing and reappearing from view until he came out into the yard, Daily Prophet tucked under his arm as he headed towards the communal privies.

"Seriously, who has a poo at exactly the same time every evening?" Caroline grumbled. "The man's a freak."

"Must be all those tinned sardines he eats, keeping him regular." Annie froze, "wait…someone's going up the stairs, but I don't recognise either of them."

"Then _they_ must have paid the housekeeper off, the nosy old harpy," Caroline said as she rearranged her cloak in an attempt to ward off the chilly breeze, "unless they're relatives or friends of one of the other lodgers or something."

"Then why are they banging on Marty's door?" Annie said.

"Well, obviously they can't be friends of his," Caroline snapped, "otherwise they'd know it was Marty's scheduled poo time."

"Oh, fizz-wizz," Annie exclaimed, "they've picked his lock…did you bug his flat?"

"Course I did!" Caroline glared at her friend's back indignantly as she pulled a data-slate from her shoulder bag. Quickly she flipped its protective cover up, waking it from its quiescent state.

Using a stylus she activated the relevant application, a sudden hissing and murmur filling the air. Annie turned and glared at her as she scrambled for the headphones before anyone was alerted to their presence.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered as she shoved the headphone plug into its socket plunging the rooftop back into silence.

"For Merlin's sake, Caroline," Annie hissed. They quickly scanned the surrounding area tense and wary for the slightest possibility someone had noticed them, but the night stayed peaceful and still.

Caroline turned her attention back to the data-slate. "It's certainly picking up all right, and the auto-transcribe seems to be functioning all right…I think Marty is about to have his first exciting evening in months."

"You don't say, heavies sent to rough him up," Annie sighed, "the silly idiot. What did he think would happen if he kept gambling like that…any idea who sent them?"

"Not yet," Caroline muttered distractedly as she watched the transcription scroll slowly down the screen, "they're just moaning about the weather…"

Coughing drifted up from the yard and Annie turned the omnioculars down. "Oh, looks like poo time is over. I wonder…what part of the Daily Prophet do you think he wipes his arse with? I'm thinking the editorial."

"But they've really improved the last couple of years," Caroline pointed out, "I think the Horoscopes. Divination is a load of old crock, but theirs are really awful. I reckon they use a hamster and a bag of scrabble letters to write them."

Annie gave her a funny look. "You have far too much time on your hands if you're coming up with things like that." She turned back to her observations. "Wait…one of them's a woman…never seen her before…don't know. The shorter one's a bloke. Can't get a good look at him."

Caroline shifted closer, holding the headphones up so they could share. There wasn't much noise at first and then a click and a thunk as Marty re-entered his flat, a rattle of keys and then…

"Wha…ha…what the hell!" Marty's panicked voice came over the headphones clearly. "How the hell did you get in here?"

"Talk about stupid questions," Annie muttered.

"Hello, Marty," the woman spoke, her voice full of amusement, "anybody would think you were avoiding us. How terribly rude of you, don't you think, Poxy Pete?"

"Yep, very rude," Poxy Pete said, his voice thick and uneducated.

"We do things to rude people," the woman carried on, "really _bad_ things, especially when they owe the boss money. How much does he owe, Pete?"

"Three thousand, eight hundred and seventy six galleons and two knuts," Pete said with relish, "I reckon that's a fair bit of dough. Think of all the nice things you could buy with that."

"Yeah, exactly," the woman sniggered as Marty whimpered in the background, "anybody would think you couldn't afford to pay it back. Funny how," there was a crash as if a piece of furniture had been kicked out of the way, "when we asked around we found out you owed money to the Cat Alley gang as well…"

"And old Cuthbert Perks," Poxy Pete added.

"Tell us something new," Annie grumbled sourly as she glared at the window across the cobbled yard.

"And him too, hence your avoiding The Old Speckled Hen all of a sudden," the woman shouted as Marty sobbed and pleaded in the background. Caroline and Annie winced as an agonised scream came over the headphones followed by broken sobbing.

"I hate people who run out on their debts," the woman snarled, low and nasty. "Personally, I'd kill you nice and slow, but frankly you're so pathetic it would be a waste of my time, so…"

There was a pause as Marty whimpered brokenly.

"Look at that Pete, barely started, but he's sobbing like a baby," the woman said in utter disgust.

"And he's wet himself too," Pete helpfully pointed out.

"You know, Marty," the woman said, "there is a way you can at least pay a little of your debt off."

Marty hiccupped. "Uh…uh…uh?"

"Is he even capable?" Pete asked dubiously. "Seriously, you've hardly done a thing and he's turned into a quivering jelly. Remember that little old lady on Side Alley? Tough as nails she was."

"That she was. Still tried to hex us even after we broke her legs," the woman said. "Who knew someone would have a back-up wand for their back-up wand? So, how about it, Marty? Are you capable of running a little errand for us?"

"Y…ye…yes," Marty managed to choke out.

"Good boy, Marty," the woman simpered. "Give him the parcel, Pete."

There was some more rustling and a muffled "oomph" as something hard was slammed into something fleshy, probably Marty.

"Deliver it to this address," the woman snarled, " _tonight._ If you don't we'll know, and next time…well, let's say Pete used to be an apprentice butcher."

oOo

"That's definitely his old school bag," Annie muttered as their target hastily stuffed his scrunched up robe into a battered mended shoulder bag.

"Look, it's like the one the Big Boss gave Felix for school," Caroline commented "but the economy edition."

"And then the little spark spent several days trying to see how much he could fit in it," Annie grinned to herself. "Timothy put a stop to it in the end when the furball tried stuffing one of the dining room chairs in…he nearly succeeded, too."

Caroline gave a soft huff of laughter. "Looks like Marty is going through into the Muggle world," she pointed out as Marty pulled out his wand and began to tap the bricks of this particular back entrance to Knockturn.

"Oh blast it," Annie grumbled, "pray he doesn't get on public transport or something, because if he does, we're stuffed."

"Forget that," Caroline snarled as she shimmed down a cast-iron drainpipe dodging an overprotective wooden gargoyle as she went, "we've got to get through the back entrance without alerting him."

"We could always jump over," Annie suggested as she landed cat-like nest to her friend on the cobbled street.

Caroline shook her head. "And you know that never goes well. We could end up _anywhere_ if we did that…no, we've got to go through and hope he's not standing on the other side drooling to himself or something."

To their relief the narrow alley this particular back entrance of Knockturn led out on to was empty apart from stray litter and the lingering odour of stale urine.

"Quick, which way did he go?" Annie hissed frantically as they raced down the alley, trying to be as quiet as they could.

Looking left and right, they tried to spot him. Fortunately, the street they had come out on was fairly quiet, only an occasional car slowly drifting past in between the rows of parked vehicles.

"Look," Annie said, baring her teeth triumphantly, " _there_."

Across the road, sporting a shabby beige coat that looked like it had once belonged to his grandfather, walked Marty. He seemed to be trying to look as normal and non-furtive as possible, meaning he actually stuck out like a sore thumb.

The two vampires hurried across the road and began to follow their quarry as he skittered across the pavement, having nearly collided with a lamppost, so complete was his distraction.

"I think the Big Boss could tail this idiot in that heavy armour of his," Caroline muttered as they went round a corner, waiting patiently for a red double-decker bus to go past.

"…in that stupid tank thing. He really wouldn't notice at all," Annie said as Marty collided with a bin, looking more frantic and stressed than ever. Standing in the middle of the pavement, he pulled out a dog-eared A-Z, flicking through the pages with shaking fingers.

"Unbelievable," Caroline sneered, "he's lost."

Annie peered around the bus shelter they were currently lurking in. "Maybe we should give him directions. It would speed this up, wouldn't it?" But before they could do so, Marty seemed to finally gain his bearings, striding forward now with great urgency.

Ten minutes later, he came to a halt outside an office building, an unremarkable 1960s concrete and glass affair. Annie dodged back behind a grubby red transit van as Marty began to pace nervously on the pavement, looking round as he did so.

"Now what?" Caroline whispered.

"Now we wait," Annie said, her expression grim.

"Again," Caroline agreed.

It began to drizzle, a fine mist in the wind that clung to everything, clothing, street furniture, eyelashes. The road became even quieter, a lone pedestrian with a garish umbrella hurrying past head down, shoulders hunched.

"Oh, so you're here," an unfamiliar voice came from across the road.

They peered round the transit van to find a very damp Marty being confronted by an expensively suited man with a black umbrella.

"Well," the stranger demanded, "give me the parcel then." Marty gaped at him fish like clutching the front of his coat.

"Yes, yes…erm," he frantically scrabbled in his shoulder bag.

"You must be new," the stranger sounded almost amused, "otherwise you would have know to ring the bell."

Marty almost tossed the parcel at the man, backing away nervously as the stranger gave him a toothy grin. "Not one of _hers,_ are you? Probably owe her something don't you?" He chuckled darkly. "Get lost then, I doubt we'll meet again…unless you end up as one of _her_ experiments, of course."

He laughed as Marty bolted across the road, Annie having to dive out of his way as he nearly ran them over.

"Quick, quick," Annie picked herself up ready to sprint after their quarry.

"Wait," Caroline hissed, "what about the parcel?"

Annie stared at her.

"We always knew he was a know-nothing muppet in over his head," Caroline said, "but that parcel…"

"Fine," Annie sighed, "but you'd better to be right about this, otherwise the Big Boss isn't going to be impressed."

Peering round the van, they found that the strange man had continued down the road, his umbrella bobbing above the line of parked cars. They trailed after him at a distance, round a corner, into another narrower and even quieter street.

Suddenly, he whirled round, eyes narrow behind their glasses as he glared suspiciously at the street around him.

From her place sprawled on the pavement, Caroline pointed to a nearby jitty. "Up," she mouthed. Annie nodded as she quickly crab-walked into the little alley, swarming up the walls and onto the rooftops, Caroline not far behind her.

"Damn, that was close," Annie muttered as she caught her breath, watching the strange man as he crossed the road, intent on checking for malingerers on the other side.

"Too right," Caroline glowered "we're going to have to follow him on the rooftops."

"Whose great idea was this?" she snarled ten minutes later as they attempted to negotiate the disparate height of two adjoining and very smooth, glass and steel buildings, all the while without losing their quarry.

"Yours," Annie snapped back as she made a particularly tricky jump, skidding uncomfortably on the slick roof as she landed.

"That's strange," Caroline growled as she followed, "I seem to remember something about you going up first, isn't that taking the lead? Therefore this is all your fault."

"Wait," Annie flapped a hand impatiently, "he's just entered that…I think it's a car-park, a multi-storey car-park. Come on, let's get down from here."

Even with their preternatural speed, they struggled to catch up with their target.

"Are you sure he isn't one of us?" Caroline muttered from where she crouched behind a boring silver car.

The man turned from where he was putting the parcel and his briefcase in the boot of his car, glaring around the bleak concrete space of the car-park suspiciously, the stark fluorescent lighting glinting off his glasses.

"See," Caroline hissed triumphantly as the man slammed the boot of his car shut. Annie ignored her as she filmed the man's every movement with the omnioculars. The car-door slammed, a pause and then the engine started, the car slowly backing out of its space before turning away.

Caroline made to move but Annie hissed frantically at her to stay still. To Caroline's surprise the sound of the car increased again as it slowly made its way back. Obviously, the boring man was considerably more observant than Marty had ever been. The two vampires flattened themselves down, trying to make themselves as small and invisible as possible.

The car crawled past them and then away as the boring man finally headed for the exit ramp, apparently satisfied that he had been alone after all.

Letting out a huge whoosh of air, Annie sat bolt upright. "Let's get out of here," she demanded, "before he can come back."

Caroline couldn't agree with her more.

"It's a disaster," Annie moaned as they sat in a bus shelter safe from the rain, "we lost Marty and then we lost that new bloke." She leant her head on Caroline's shoulder with a miserable sigh.

"You've got a pretty good look at his car didn't you," Caroline pointed out.

"Yeah, and him," Annie said, "I recorded everything I could."

"So you've got his number plate thingy," Caroline carried on.

"Which means we can find out more about him, his name, his address…" Annie almost smiled, "I'm sure the Big Boss has people who know how to do that…which means this hasn't all been a total loss."

"Exactly," Caroline smiled, feeling quite smug.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Stepping back, the God-Emperor checked the controlling hand-set one more time. Everything looked to be in working order; he'd got a row of green lights. Carefully he pushed the toggle forward.

The platform stayed stubbornly where it was, hovering sedately a couple of feet above the ground. Maybe he needed more power and so he pushed the toggle forward more forcefully.

Shooting upwards, the platform hit the ceiling with a resounding crack, flattening the light fixture with a crunch of breaking plastic and smashing glass, the magnets whirring and flickering, the runes engraved on their surfaces glowing with an eldritch light.

"Well…blast," he exclaimed to the lab. That hadn't gone as he expected. He could get stable hovering at a pre-determined height very easily, hence the floating sofas in the training hall, and of course his hover board. Worked beautifully…so why couldn't he get controlled flight? What was he missing…

Grabbing his new hover board, he headed out into the under-workings and away from the bustle of the R&D department.

Soon he was walking among the dark and silent jungle of pillars and the deep trench that now surrounded Godric's Hollow and its environs deep underground.

The velvet silence, the heaviness of the stone, the smell of the earth, he closed his eyes breathing it in, relaxing.

Throwing the board down he leapt on, just as the rings activated, propelling himself forward, waggling the board to build up speed as he approached the first pillar. With a leap, he bounced the board off its surface in a shower of blue sparks propelling himself even higher, setting a zig-zagging course across the enormous hall as he somersaulted, twisted and leapt until his mind was clear of all frustration.

"So what am I missing," he said as he sedately wove around a pillar to a gliding halt. Flipping the board up, he sank to the ground sitting cross-legged as he carefully examined the magnets on the underside of his board.

The board was brand new. Six months ago or so a couple of the lads from the department had started their own business designing and building hover-boards. Wanting to help them out, he'd commissioned one from them, the design based on Minoan art, a dolphin lunging across the surface of the board among stylized waves as fish swam past. It made him feel quite nostalgic for Knossos and that little eatery that did that thing with squid and the wine…

Maybe he'd been going about this the wrong way. The runic arrays of the magnets provided a steady unchanging state once set, and he'd been trying to get the controls to alter that, but what if he had the controls provide the steady state…

Excited, he leapt up eager to get back to the lab and the schematics of the runic arrays.

The premonition slammed into him like a mountain side, rocking him on his feet, a desperate urgent need to act. He needed to get to Mars. He needed to take _it_ there…and if he didn't manage it quickly, all would be lost.


	5. Chapter 5

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

 _I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

* * *

Author's Note

I had something really clever sorted out for here but now I come to sit down and type it out it had fled...probably to Hawaii.

This is a rather seasonally inappropriate chapter, there are also no monsters or fight scenes. I promise to make it up to you in the next one. Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 5

This had seemed like such a good idea at the time, Fudge scowled to himself as he pulled his nice warm cloak about himself tighter, an exciting little adventure on his way to teaching that damn Faulks a lesson about cheeking his social betters, but now that he was actually out in Knockturn, he was starting to have misgivings about the whole thing.

He glanced around at the dark street, which thanks to the horrible cold and damp weather, was rather empty at the moment, light from windows glinting off the slick cobbles. Hostile eyes watched him from the darkness, unseen beings…things. He tightened his grip on his wand as he scuttled past the opening of a jitty, more like a maw onto who knew what, stuffed between two tall and narrow buildings, plaster peeling off their fronts, revealing the wattle and daub underneath.

A shabby figure staggered out of a building, nearly bumping into the Minister, who jumped back, gagging at the overwhelming mixture of body odour and cheap alcohol coming off the man. "Watch where you're going," he snapped, his disgust overwhelming his better judgement for a moment.

The drunk turned on him with a snarl, nearly staggering into a wall. "You threat'ning me," he slurred. "Wach yoooo wan'? Cum on then!"

Fudge staggered backwards, nearly tripping on his cloak-hem as he dodged around the drunken man as best he could, ducking a sloppy punch to the head. "Leave me alone," he yelled as he set off down the narrow street at an almost sprint. Dodging around the corner, he quickly left the drunk behind as he ran up Slink Alley as fast as his legs could take him. There, on the corner, lay his goal and a possible refuge from violent drunkards, the _Happy Hag's Button_ , a less than salubrious establishment, but certainly more refined than the nameless gin-parlour that ruffian had staggered out of. Knowing this area, it was really someone's front parlour and the alcohol on sale distilled from whatever refuse the proprietor could get on their hands on; potato peelings, old apples, dead cats…who knew.

Heaving like a bellows, he staggered into the _Happy Hag,_ his legs uncooperative and feeling distinctly as if they were made of jelly. The warm heat of the public bar hit him, almost sending him reeling with the smell of stale food and beer and sweaty feet and the low hum of conversation. It faltered momentarily as he staggered in, the regulars pausing to watch him warily as he staggered to the bar.

The landlord gave him a suspicious glance, which quickly turned (to Fudge's faint indignation) to utter annoyance. "Long time, no see Cornelius," the landlord growled as he came over, "a little surprised to see you in here…all things considered." He gave Fudge a condescending smirk.

"Well," Fudge huffed, "I've been rather busy what with one things and another. You know, lots to do at the Ministry." He puffed his chest up importantly.

The Landlord's smirk widened. "You're not so popular round here, so best to keep your head down…which you aren't doing, Cornelius, not with that fancy cloak of yours." He strolled back down the bar to serve a few of the locals who'd begun banging their tankards impatiently. "Hold your horses, lads…your usual, eh?"

Fudge watched in bewilderment. Fancy cloak? This was the shabbiest one he owned, he only really used it when he was forced to do something in the garden in winter or needed something to throw on when walking his wife's dog, a creature that could do a passable impression of a white pom-pom. True, it had originally been rather nice, from _Twilfit & Tattings, _but that had been a rather long time ago. It was shabby and faded, and there was even the odd loose thread along the hem…

"If you're wanting to hire some of the lads for something, you can forget it," the Landlord said as he reappeared. "I'm not going to put trouble in their way, not after last time, and particularly not when some of them have real jobs and such to go to now."

"Erm, no…not really," Fudge nervously eyed the filthy rag the Landlord was wiping the bar with, shuddering at the idea of the disgusting thing just touching him. "I'm actually looking for someone," he said, licking his lips nervously.

"Oh aye," the Landlord eyed him suspiciously.

"Yes, erm…" Fudge ploughed on, "Caspian Glossop," he leaned forward conspiratorially, "I want to talk to him, ask him something."

"You aren't doing a favour for his old man, are you?" the Landlord asked.

"Er…no," Fudge said, "I am fairly certain that Glossop Senior is unaware that I'm currently here."

"Huh, fine then," the Landlord leaned forward, "the table two down from the door…and _don't_ come back here, Cornelius." He walked away to deal with one of his rowdier customers who was busily swearing up a storm at the other end of the bar.

Doing his best to look natural, Fudge glanced towards the table in question, only to find himself staring. Was that really Caspian Glossop? The thin figure slumped over the table was nursing a bottle of the Happy Hag's cheapest rot-gut, his fingers blue and covered in scabs, almost as if he'd been punching his hands into buckets of nails. His robes didn't look much better.

Fudge steeled himself, maybe he was in luck. This was quite obviously someone down at heel, who'd probably do anything up to and including murder for a little bit of gold. Before he could approach him, Glossop got to his feet and limped to the side door, slipping out into the urine smelling alley at the side of the pub.

Fudge frantically raced after him. He was _not_ going to let him get away, not this close, not after hunting for him for months. The alley was dark and smelly, and he really, _really,_ hoped that was just mud under his feet, because…

A hard weight slammed him into a damp and mouldy wall, something sharp pricking at his throat.

"What're ya following me for?" Glossop Jnr snarled out of the darkness.

"Wha, wha…" Fudge wheezed as the weight against him increased.

"Well?" Glossop snarled, "my bloody Dad had better not 'ave sent you."

"Not…From…Your…Father…Got a job for you," Fudge croaked around the fist in his throat, cold sweat trickling down his spine, "good…galleons."

Glossop Jnr snickered. "Maybe I'll just take the gold and you can stuff the job."

Fudge winced at the fetid smell of his breath, didn't the lad know any breath freshening charms. "Timothy…Faulks…" he managed to wheeze.

The suffocating weight reduced slightly. "What about him?" Glossop demanded. "Uppity little twat he is, needs putting in his place 'cos of his big head."

"Exactly," Fudge did his best to nod, "three hundred galleons to rough him over….one hundred now, the rest after successful completion."

Glossop Jnr. actually seemed to be seriously thinking his offer over now. "You want to pay me to thrash the mudblood twat? What if I accidentally kill the little shit?"

Fudge winced at the coarse language. "Well, accidents do happen, don't they?" he nervously laughed.

Glossop Jnr. snickered in the darkness. "Deal."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Felix had snuck Tiffany into the Gryffindor common room again. Hermione watched over the top of her book with amusement as the pair sat near the fire hunched over a piece of parchment, blatantly up to no good.

There'd been a massive exodus from the Castle earlier that morning as everyone raced to take advantage of the last Hogsmeade weekend before the Christmas hols, but she'd really not been feeling it. There was only so much tramping round a snowy village swarming with sugar fuelled kids she could take. So extra reading it was, with maybe an opportunity to get started on her revision timetable for next term…and some hand-to-hand practise with Ron…when he finally made his appearance.

She glanced over the top of her book towards the dorm stairs. At one of the tables, a lone seventh year was scratching away with her quill surrounded by stacks of books despite the day, cramming for NEWTS already. In a few weeks that would be her, sweating over her OWLS, cramming for all she was worth. She would never ever willingly admit this out loud, but she was really looking forwards to this year being over, heavy exam and revision stress, and Carrow popping up in odd places, lurking at the back of classrooms, talking to the other professors, suddenly appearing in the corridors after class…as Millie kept saying, a little Carrow went a very, very long way.

Thinking she was being watched, the seventh year looked up, giving Hermione a nasty glare before going back to her books.

"Some people," Hermione grumbled to herself turning her attention back to Felix and Tiffany. The pair had pulled out a selection of miscellaneous items now, a very muggle looking toilet roll, a bag of glitter, a Filibuster's Marvellous Magical rocket, what looked like food dye in a tiny little bottle. Should she intervene before they succeeded in blowing their own hands off? Could Madam Pomfrey actually grow back hands?

From above there came a loud explosion, the tiny panes of glass in the windows buzzing as they vibrated in their leading, purple smoke billowing out of the arch leading to the boy's dormitory stairs.

"What the Throne?" she muttered trying not to reach for weapons that weren't there.

One of the Weasley Twins, Fred or George she wasn't sure, burst out from the boys' staircase looking as if the hounds of Hell were after him, trailing pretty pink bubbles. Seeing Hermione glaring at him, he screeched to a halt in the middle of the common room, obviously panicked as she pulled herself up from her seat, barely noticing when his brother slammed into his back.

Behind them, Ron emerged from the stairs with a furious snarl, trailing pink foam, face almost purple with rage, fist clenched ready to pummel something into submission.

"We're sorry, we're really sorry," one of the Twins gibbered, the other one nodding as he frantically looked round, his face falling even further when he realised that Hermione had manoeuvred herself in front of the exit.

"I. Don't. Care," Ron snarled through gritted teeth, as he stalked forward, his eyes never leaving his prey. The Twins shifted backwards towards her, until she arrested their movement with a not so gentle boot in the behind.

"Come on, Ron," Fred (maybe) said, a hysterical edge to his voice as he raised his hands placatingly. "You wouldn't kill us really," he chuckled.

George (possibly) nodded frantically. "Yes, just think of the difficulties of getting brain matter out of the carpet."

"Or telling Mum you've murdered two of her precious babies," Fred (perhaps) added.

"Precious babies, _precious babies_ …" That seemed to be the last straw for Ron. His fist snapped out, hitting the first twin smartly in the jaw, sending him reeling, Ron's knee slamming into his stomach leaving him slumping to the ground in a heap. The other twin tried to duck out of the way and help his brother at the same time, and Ron took advantage, slipping an arm around his neck into a sleeper hold.

"His face is going blue you know," Hermione pointed out a little while later. The Twin in question gurgled painfully.

"RIGHT, THAT'S IT," the seventh year roared, brandishing her wand, "GET OUT. GET. OUT."

The Twins, seeing a golden opportunity for escape, dived round her for the portrait opening, wrenching it open only to come face to face with a furious Professor McGonagall.

"What in Merlin's name is going on?" Professor McGonagall, her expression furious. "I want an explanation _now_."

"Ah, well…see…" George stuttered lacking his usual swagger but Fred beat him to it. "He tried strangling me," he pointed an accusing finger at Ron.

Hermione hid her laughter in the approved-by-Carrow way as Ron seemed to swell with rage, his face redder than the curtains. "Pink foam!" he shouted, gesticulating wildly at his older brothers. "They filled the staircase with pink foam!"

"Yes, but…" Fred tried to justify himself but Ron began shouting over him.

"…blinded…"

"Well…" George began in support of his brother shoving forward.

Well, this was amusing. Hermione hid a smirk, but she couldn't help but notice that Felix and Tiffany had somehow managed to completely clear their table of any suspicious items and were now watching with the shouting match with overly innocent faces.

"…could have fallen…" Ron screamed.

"…testing a new product…" Fred yelled back.

"Not on me!" Ron snarled moments from lunging at the Twins again, his fists already up and ready.

The silence after the series of bangs from McGonagall's wand was thunderous.

"I have never seen such a disgraceful display in my life," McGonagall's voice crackled with fury. "I will be owling your parents immediately to inform them that you will all be going home for the Yule holidays…"

Fred opened his mouth to express his outrage but then thought better of it.

"…and when you return Mr Weasley, Mr Weasley," she glared at the Twins, "and Mr Weasley," she turned her fury on Ron who was pretty much standing at attention, "you will receive two weeks of detention. Each. Am I understood?" she growled.

Slumping in defeat, the Twins nodded sadly before sidling past the Professor and out of the Common Room. After one last glare around the room, Professor McGonagall followed them.

"Alright, Ron?" Hermione asked.

Ron sagged. "Yeah. Just need to…hit something," he muttered. "I'm going to the training pit for a while."

"Yeah," Hermione said, "I'll come join you in a moment…you know, I can't wait for this year to be over, OWLs and Carrow everywhere…and we need to start revision soon," she sighed.

"Yeah," Ron grimaced, his shoulders slumping further.

"I'll join you in a bit," she gave his shoulder a friendly slap, "just got a letter to write."

Ron shuffled away as she went to get parchment and quill. There was no point in staying at the Castle on her own. Looked she was going to have to put up with her relatives after all.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

It was funny, Sirius suppressed a yawn as he looked over the gathered Wizengamot, his behind slowly going numb thanks to the unnecessarily hard seat, the more things changed the more they stayed put…or was it stayed the same…Lily had tried teaching him some common Muggle sayings for a laugh once. Some of them had stuck…he withdrew rapidly from the death tinged memories and the slippery slope into despair and the whisky bottle they promised.

Yeah…there were all these new people sitting in the Wizengamot now, but it was too early to say yet what effect they had had on the actual political climate of the Wizengamot itself.

There were still the hard-core Pure-blood Traditionalists like Mumsie darling had been, and her best-crony Lady Cromwell, he could hear the old bat behind muttering behind him; he flinched, alert now in case she decided to get aggressive with the itinerary.

They of course weren't to be confused with the Traditional Traditionalists who weren't friendly towards muggleborns and their ways, but didn't hold with all this Dark Lord nonsense. Though Sirius had heard a rumour that it had more to do with some sort of family feud between the Malfoys and the Glossops.

And of course there were the more Progressive Traditionalists, quite a few of whom were sympathetic towards Dumbledore and his political stance, but had little time for either the Pure-blood loonies or the Traditional Traditionalists.

But of course now with Carrow hanging around like a bad day in a dragon reserve, the Pure-blood Traditionalists were trying to butter up the Traditional Traditionalists and both were trying to woo the Progressive Traditionalists, while all three groups were trying to snag the allegiance of the new Wizengamot members, some of whom were surprisingly respectable…except for the sociology lecturer…or whatever she was…but most people were avoiding her. There was just something about the way she smiled that made him feel like he was being carefully analysed and dissected.

But the three Tradionalist factions were facing stiff competition for the new-to-the-broom bunch from the Progressive faction, who were mostly half-bloods and who loudly called for the careful adoption and integration of various aspects of muggle society, citing the roaring success of indoor plumbing and the Hogwarts Express.

There was also the small, and crazy, Radical Reform group who advocated very loudly for the complete normalization with the muggle world, but they tended to be shunned on the grounds they were bad for one's political health, and it meant you could avoid listening to rants about the wonders of transistors.

Everybody ignored old Marmaduke Higglebottom who had been a Wizengamot member for at least the last eighty years and was currently campaigning to have Fudge replaced with a donkey. Sirius had to admit as he glanced towards the Minister who was slumped down in his seat his over-large robes bagging around him that maybe Higglebottom had a point…

He muffled a yelp as his right ear exploded in pain. Turning, he gave Lady Cromwell a scowl. The old bag glared back, obviously unimpressed, her rolled up itinerary, still clutched in her claw like hand. "Concentrate, you stupid boy," she hissed, "this is important."

Pouting, he slumped down in his seat.

"Black…Mr Black…"

Sirius found Faulks staring up at him one-eyed and like a vampire that had discovered his meal had a blood-communicable disease. "Mr Black, if I may have your attention please. Would you be willing to answer a few questions relating to your experiences of your childhood education?"

"Erm…" Would he? Sirius considered the matter; parts of it were a rather sore topic but maybe… "Er, okay? I'd be willing." He dragged himself to his feet, trying not to fidget or just straight up run away now he was the centre of attention the entire Wizengamot.

"Thank you." Faulks politely inclined his head. "During your pre-Hogwarts years, who was mainly responsible for your education?"

Sirius winced. "My mother...though I had tutors for things like piano and dance." And a fat lot of good it had done too.

"And at what age did you first learn to read?" Faulks was now staring at him with unnerving intensity.

He licked his lips nervously trying not to let the tidal-wave of memories of his mother's furious shrieks overwhelm him, the slap sting of her favourite willow switch and when she didn't have the energy, or was feeling particularly vindictive, the sheer pain of an over-powered stinging hex. "I was maybe…seven…eight?" he ventured.

Faulks nodded thoughtfully.

"I was always a lot better at arithmetic and magical theory," Sirius said, suddenly feeling rather defensive.

"Indeed," Faulks said, though Sirius suspected he was being patronising, "I will point out here, that within the muggle educational system of this country it is normal, and expected, for a child to master the basics of reading in their fifth or even fourth year."

A ripple of whispers spread across the Wizengamot.

"Mr Black…how many childhood friends did you have?"

Sirius swallowed nervously.

"Playmates?" Faulks offered.

"I always had my brother Reggie…Regulus. We were thick as thieves before Hogwarts…but then I got sorted into Gryffindor," Sirius shrugged, trying not to show the old pain and sorrow that still haunted him. "We saw some of our cousins on a regular basis, erm…then I got to meet other children at the various balls and parties through the year…but we couldn't really play or anything with them being formal events..."

"How would you describe it overall?" Faulks asked.

He licked his lips nervously as he considered the question. "Lonely…it was very lonely…and cold."

The whispers grew to a dull murmur around him.

"Thank you, Mr Black."

Sirius sat back with a small thump. What was that all about?

"As you can see from that rather impromptu questionnaire," Faulks looked round the assembled Wizengamot, "loneliness and lack of social contact is a problem with our children…as is the uneven quality of…"

Fighting his unease and the roiling of his stomach Sirius pulled his itinerary out from where he'd stuffed it down the back of his seat even as Faulks droned on about…something...

"…organised primary schooling would allow them to meet others their age and make friends outside their families before going off to Hogwarts, all while experiencing a much more systematic education. This would go some way to easing their entrance into magical education, minimizing many of the problems our children currently experience in their first years at Hogwarts…"

Reading it would surely put him to sleep…maybe…but he could always make a paper airplane thingie, or try that ori…oni something. Mooney had tried explaining it to him a couple of months back, something about making birds from paper squares just by folding it. Damn clever these muggles.

Ah, second item, the Educational Reform Bill to improve the learning prospects of the under elevens…he could support that. Imagine having friends as a child, simply amazing…and getting away from Mumsie's tender loving care for for or five hours a day…wow…

The meeting dragged on around him, Faulks having returned to seat so some old codger could waffle on…something about exports now (giant yawn). The itinerary wasn't much help either, some potions ingredient or other and whether it should be taxed or not…and so he carried on reading.

…some sort of minor property reform, only of interest if you lived in Cumbria…some tightening up of the laws surrounding experimental magical creature breeding…what has Hagrid been up to recently, and why wasn't he involved?

…some impenetrable legal jabber…Godric's Hollow…what? Godric's Hollow? What was going on there? Unease rose as he squinted down at the parchment trying to pick out the meaning from the particularly obtuse language. What was happening in the sleepy little country town where his life and that of his friends had so spectacularly unravelled…he hadn't been back since, hadn't been able to face it. And no, that time with his bloody godson's bloody party where he'd bloody nearly been bloody eaten by bloody vampires did not bloody count…

But from what he could remember from before all the pain, it had been small, quiet, a little mix of muggles and magical people, passed by the frantic stampede of muggle progress…so why was the DMLE having new training facilities there…funded by Aquila Industries?

He leaned forward to glance to where Madam Bones sat near the Minister and the forbidding vampire-like figure of Faulks. Maybe it was time he faced his demons and actually visited the place.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The dream had been an odd one. Instead of the usual violence and destruction, he'd found himself sitting in a seat in a cramped room of some kind, an array of instruments before him, and ahead a window out onto space. A distant planet sat there, huge and banded like Jupiter but a curious green colour, a distant smudge of light a moon of this alien world.

It had been curiously beautiful, watching this planet come ever closer in the window, the intricate details of its clouds becoming increasingly clear as the muggle conveyance approached, for what else could it be that he was trapped in, strapped tightly in this enormous padded seat next to a silent giant clad in armour very like Carrow's, though this one was painted mainly black with white insignia on the shoulder guard. It had a distinctly utilitarian air to it.

So he went back to admiring the swirling clouds of the planet as they grew ever closer, the craft he was in changing direction slightly towards the moon, now revealed as a crackled marble hanging in space. There was something there…something near that moon. He leaned forward against the tight restraints. It was very faint, just a glimmer of light next the bright moon.

As they approached his unease began to increase, the object slowly revealing itself, a tangled jumble of…things all mashed together, just hanging there in the darkness and the silence. Giant ships twisted and distorted, ripped open by colossal forces and then knotted together into this mangled ball that loomed ever larger in the window…and they were heading straight towards it.

Lights glimmered fitfully on one of the mangled ships, flickering in the stark shadows as if it were attempting to communicate some arcane message. Something was alive, living in that mess. Beside him the silent giant tensed in anticipation. Suddenly he was very clear, whatever was on that mangled, twisted mass of ships, he wanted nothing to do with it. He tugged at the buckle that held the straps in place; if he could just get out of this seat he could get away but the buckle refused to budge and the more he pulled and struggled against them the tighter the straps became, the larger the mass of broken ships loomed in the darkness…

He had abruptly awoken to find the blankets had somehow tangled themselves up against his neck leaving him cold and drenched in his own sweat. Sleep had failed to return, and so he had spent the rest of the night sitting near the window, watching the snow drift silently by.

Now it lay deep and thick, blanketing the grounds, pristine and untouched in the early morning. It really was quite the magnificent sight, a white blanket rolling down to the lake which lay almost obsidian smooth, fringed by the trees of the Forbidden Forest, bleak and twisted, and once upon a time he might even has gone as far describing them as forbidding, dangerous even.

That was, of course, _before_ Carrow had come along, Dumbledore sighed to himself as he sipped his early morning cup of tea. Carrow had a nasty tendency to put things into perspective, a dark and terrifying perspective, even Voldemort and the last war.

If Carrow ever decided to…to…Dumbledore shuddered hurriedly banishing the dark places his mind attempted to drag him to. It was far too early in the morning…and he was low on fire-whisky as well.

Actually, all things considering, this year hadn't been anywhere near as terrible as expected, despite Carrow's presence in the Castle, his close proximity to young and impressionable minds, the horrific dreams. Obviously, the older ones were inured to the man's terrible…awful…he grimaced. Poppy had pointed out an increase in the younger years requiring calming drafts, but still…

Movement near the school caught his attention. Ah, now who could this be…he scrabbled for his omnioculars. Ah yes, of course, the twice daily walking of the tiger. Dumbledore watched intently as a dark too-tall figure strode through the snow, the large feline pouncing along at his side, his robes snapping and flapping around him as he strode along.

Carrow stooped, scooping up some snow, Artemis bouncing around him in anticipation. With a heave, he flung the large snowball across the lawn, Artemis sprinting in its wake, her muscles flexing and shifting under her skin. She was utterly magnificent, and Dumbledore smiled; of course, he really didn't approve of having a large predatory feline in the Castle near children, but there was no denying her sheer beauty.

Predictably, the snow ball landed in a drift of snow, disappearing completely as Artemis ploughed into the drift after it. Increasingly frustrated, she smashed her paws into the snow, biting at it, her ears going back as she failed to find her prize. Looking round, she stared at Carrow, giving him a sarcastic glare that even Severus would have been proud of.

Carrow seemed to find the entire thing amusing, while a frustrated Artemis bounced around him in a manner quite aggressive, snapping at his arms and face. Dumbledore winced at the size of her teeth, he was quite certain that she could kill a normal human being with ease, but Carrow…

The two predators crashed to the ground in a flurry of snow as they playfully wrestled and fought with one another, rolling and thrashing in the snow. It seemed a minor miracle that there wasn't any blood dotting the landscape. Finally Artemis managed to get a grip on Carrow's arm, her teeth digging painfully into the man's robes. Carrow responded by tickling her behind her ears, dodging as she squirmed and wriggled, trying to lick his face.

Yes…two predators, beautiful in their own way, but potentially deadly, dangerous and…

"Albus, are you coming to breakfast or not?"

Dumbledore turned to find Minerva watching him in exasperation, and here he was still in his nightgown and slippers, the ones with the fluffy pom-poms too…and he hadn't opened his presents yet either. Oh dear.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Stretching in his chair, Timothy winced as his back cracked, the sound startlingly loud in the silence of the office. Above, the ceiling putti swirled around on their little wings, watching him with interest as they whispered to one another, their giggles oddly muted.

Until a fight broke out over one of the decorative ribbons. How did the poor things survive, Timothy thought as he watched the hissing squabble break out above him, the ribbon viciously yanked back and forth as the putti rustled and swarmed, snarling at one another for procession. One grabbed the leg of another, biting it as hard as it could, the injured putti squawking with pain, flitting across the ceiling on its little wings, bloodied leg trailing, to hide in among the architectural features that ringed the ceiling.

The scrum of swirling putti exploded as one forced its way free, the ribbon bundled to its chest, the others darting for cover as the winner did a triumphant lap of the ceiling, the surprisingly intact ribbon trailing behind it. The thing must be stronger than steel, Timothy mused as he watched, that thing should be absolutely shredded considering the treatment it had just received.

You could probably use that ribbon to moor ships with…and if he was thinking thoughts like _that,_ then he'd obviously been trapped in this room surrounded by paperwork for far too long.

Groaning, he rubbed at his face, giving the piles of bureaucracy that crowded his desk a tired glare. No, he'd been at this too long. What he needed was to move. Maybe…maybe he could have a walk, go over to Granger's. She was currently at home for the holidays, wasn't she…round up Chuddy and some of the others, some duelling would be just the thing, and he could introduce her to the new girl. Yes, that was an excellent idea, he smiled to himself as he strode from the office.

.oOo.

He was still deep in thought as he strode up the gravel path to the Granger's front door. The house was a large and solidly Victorian affair, complete with terracotta decorative motifs and original sash windows. Knocking, he lazily turned round frowning, as he took in the cars parked on the gravel. Two were definitely the vehicles of the Doctors Granger but the third he was unfamiliar with. Did they have guests?

There was something important he was forgetting, he was sure of it; maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. He was about to leave, but of course that was the moment the door opened behind him and he spun round to find Daniel Granger standing there in a garish Christmas jumper (frolicking reindeers on a bright red background) watching him with an air of polite annoyance.

"It's Christmas Day," a slow smirk crossed Daniel's face, "you'd forgotten hadn't you," he grinned.

Timothy stared at him a moment, horror slowly dawning, "I am so sorry, I had forgotten…"

Daniel shook his head sadly.

"…I'll just go and…erm…" he hunched his shoulders his face a frozen mask as he cringed with embarrassment. How could he have forgotten _Christmas_? Idiot! Stupid paperwork!

"So how're the crowns? You know if you wanted something a little less…bright I'm sure we can fit you in," Daniel gave him what he obviously thought was a winning smile.

Timothy winced. "They're fine."

"Remembering to floss regularly too, yes?" Daniel nodded encouragingly.

He was about to reply but Hermione appeared by her father's shoulder, " _Dad_ , seriously…hey, Tim! How do you tie this," she held up a horribly familiar length of silk except this one was mainly dark red with a narrow gold stripe every few inches.

"He's struck again," she gestured at her front and Timothy blinked in surprise at the familiar looking dolman with its braid covered front. "Carrow gave me a box of… _stuff_ for Christmas. Like a really challenging lucky dip."

.oOo.

He'd been dragged inside by a smirking Daniel and hastily introduced to various Granger relatives, a grandparent, aunt and uncle, cousins…

It had all been excruciatingly embarrassing, he'd attempted to socialise, smiled even, which hadn't gone down well so he had retreated at the first possible opportunity he politely could, the collective Grangers seeming almost as relieved as he felt.

So now here he was, poked into the corner of the sofa nearest to Hermione and her lucky-dip-from-hell box, her sash so crisp and new its ends crumpled oddly as she squatted next to the box rifling through the contents as the Christmas get-together swirled around them uncomfortably, doing its best to pretend they didn't exist.

Cautiously, he raised the lid on the hat-box Hermione had dumped to one side, the contents revealed to be a neater, unscuffed version of his own peaked cap.

"I'm not wearing it, not ever," Hermione growled as she unwrapped a leather great coat. It wasn't as elaborately decorated as his own, Timothy noted with a twinge of jealousy, but it still suffered from the skull buttons.

Boots followed, the external steel toecap as elaborately engraved as his own Timothy noted as Hermione pulled out a belt with a little squeal of joy, quickly buckling it on so it sat just below her sash, the fittings to hang a sword jingling in a festive manner as she moved.

"Are you a vampire?" one of the cousins asked, Zak, Timothy thought, definitely not Piper. He was certain Piper was the girl currently sitting on the other sofa, glaring at them like a small thundercloud.

"No…no, definitely not a vampire," Timothy shifted, uncomfortable under such close scrutiny.

"Really? Because you look really…"

"Undead?" Timothy offered, trying hard to hide his annoyance. "No, I can happily go out in sunlight, touch silver and consume garlic. Definitely not a vampire."

The boy…Zak…looked disappointed.

"Not even a tiny little bit," he added as he watched Hermione pull out a book, peek inside, and then jerk back as if stung. Wincing, she shoved the book into his hands. It would have looked innocuous, but for the gold skull emblazoned "I" the only decoration on the front. Suspicious, he had a look himself. " _An Acolyte's Primer to the Glorious Service of the Inquisition_ " the title proclaimed in Carrow's best hand writing. The contents promised to be disturbing.

Shoving the awful tome down by his leg, he pulled out a cigarette, his nerves feeling a little relief from the familiar feel and taste of the Black Russian. He seriously needed a smoke…and he'd thought that this would be relaxing…

"No wonder the box was heavy," Hermione breathed as she pulled out a gun case. Setting it down, she had a quick peek inside, releasing a waft of gun oil and something metallic. He caught a glimpse of one of the new energy guns settled into its ergonomic foam, gleaming with newness. Hermione looked up at him eyes flicking towards the gathered Grangers who were beginning to pay them a little too much interest. "It can't stay here," she muttered to him, "unfortunately."

"I'll take it back with me," he promised. "I'll put it in your locker for you…what the Throne was he thinking?"

Hermione shrugged. "Who knows what goes on in his head…"

.oOo.

The back garden was wonderfully quiet and peaceful, barely a breeze to disturb the evergreen foliage of the shrubs that huddled at the back of the borders. Slumping against the wall of the house, Timothy lit a cigarette wondering how the heck he managed to make such a huge mistake. How in Merlin's name had he managed to forget Christmas…it was just ridiculous.

Hermione appeared, a mug of coffee in each hand, her new great-coat draped around her shoulders. "Here you go," she said as she awkwardly handed the mug decorated with cartoon snowmen over.

"Thanks," Timothy muttered, "I'm really sorry about…" he waved his cigarette vaguely at the garden.

"It's fine, honestly," Hermione smiled as she leant against the wall beside him, "I was getting close to punching Piper anyway. You arrived just in time."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they drank coffee in the grey chill of the garden, frost still clinging here and there on the rose bushes, a great sheet of grey across the lawn.

"Have you the time to come to the Lodge in the next week or so?" Timothy finally asked. "it should give you the opp…" He yelped as a flash of light nearly blinded him, leaving him frantically juggling the coffee mug, his cigarette now hissing sadly on the damp gravel of the path.

"Dad!" Hermione growled, "you aren't funny."

Daniel stood there laughing at them, a polaroid camera in his hand as he shook the square photo he had just taken. Giving it a satisfied look, he handed it over to his daughter.

Timothy glared as he took in the offending image over Hermione's shoulder. It was like two crows, all drab black, staring out of the image in shock as they clutched incongruously cheerful mugs in their hands. He looked like a funereally dressed scarecrow…and his hair needed cutting…again.

"Definitely one for the album, I think," Daniel grinned.

"Dad," Hermione sighed, "no….just no!"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Typically for Christmas day, it was raining. Ron grumbled to himself as he splashed through practice drills in the orchard. Anything was better than staying inside the Burrow at the moment. When had his family become so bloody annoying?

Passing through the last few slashes and parries, he came to a halt, sweaty despite the chilly air. Should he go through them again, it would mean he didn't have to go back in for another half hour or so…

"That looked like…fun," a voice said from beside the big old cooking apple tree. Ron turned to find Bill standing there, muffled up in coat and scarf, watching him carefully. He was holding a shielding charm over his head, the light rain dribbling off the edges and pattering on to the soggy grass. "Aren't you cold?"

Ron grunted, shrugging as he inspected the practise weapon for any mud; looked like his peace and quiet was over. Sighing, he began the trek back to the house, Bill trailing after him.

"So," Bill said slowly, "have you thought about what you're going to do after Hogwarts?"

Ron spared him a glance over his shoulder as they approached the back door. "Auror corps," he grunted, fiddling with his boot laces.

"Huh…okay," Bill fidgeted a moment, "not a curse breaker then."

"Didn't take runes or Arithmancy," Ron frowned as he put his boots to dry, stepping into the noisy warmth of the kitchen.

"You can catch up on things like that you know," Bill said, "and there's more than academics to being a curse breaker."

"Right," Ron edged away round the kitchen table where Percy had set himself up at one end, a muggle laptop open in front of him (Ron gave himself a mental pat on the back for recognising the thing) tapping away at the keyboard, occasionally consulting one of the numerous files and piles of documents that surrounded him.

"Hey, Perce," Bill laughed, "did you just decide to bring a bit of work home for the holidays so you wouldn't be bored, or is this just for fun?"

"Sod off," Percy growled, not even looking up from his screen.

"Language, boys," Mum bellowed as she bustled into the kitchen with a basket of vegetables fresh from the store in the shed. "Really, Percy, it's a holiday. Is this truly necessary?"

" _Mum_ ," Percy said through gritted teeth, yanking a print-off from Bill's hands.

Ron sidled out of the kitchen as quietly as he could unwilling to get pulled into the argument he could feel brewing. The living room was quiet by comparison, Dad heavily occupied with a book (to Ron's satisfaction it was the introduction to muggle science that Hermione had helped him pick). Beside him, Charlie looked up from where he was busily caring for his dragon keeper gloves, long gauntlets of thick hide that he was carefully oiling, and over in the corner Ginny was curled up in the large squashy armchair knitting…something. It was orange and pink and stripey…and appeared to have three legs….he didn't want to know.

Turning the corner to the stairs he came face to face with Fred and George. Fred stifled a scream as he paled, backing away into George as they shuffled cautiously around him. He growled as he watched their ridiculous sideways dance, alert to any stupid tricks they might try and pull. Stupid idiots, he huffed after them as they bolted for the kitchen, he just didn't have time for their nonsense any more.

"Drama queens," he growled to himself as he stormed up the stairs. A quick wash and dry clothes improved his mood. Slightly. When he finally couldn't put it off any more he reluctantly made his way back downstairs, before someone came looking for him, and started asking annoying questions.

Bill and Charlie were watching him carefully from the living room when he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, whispering to one another as they watched him. Whatever it was they wanted off him, the answer was absolutely _no_. The Twins were nowhere to be seen, which was either good or bad depending on how you looked at it.

"Ronald," Mum bellowed from the kitchen, "come and help me with these potatoes, please...now."

Reluctantly, he shuffled over to find Mum thrusting a brown paper bag of spuds and peeler at him. At least the Twins wouldn't be able to get away with bothering him, he thought as he settled down to the dull and repetitive task, loosing himself in the sound of Christmas jingles from the wizarding wireless and Percy's furious typing, Mum bustling around as she prepared a veritable feast.

At some point Dad must have wandered over, Ron suddenly finding himself jolted out of vague thoughts of contacting Hermione to floo over to the Lodge for some extra training…maybe even the firing-range if Mr Faulks wasn't too busy…

"…don't even think of poking it with your wand," Percy shouted leaning protectively over the laptop. "I've got all my stuff on here!"

"But it's a muggle con-poo-ter," Dad exclaimed an excited smile on his face, "can't I just have a little look? I've always wondered about them. Where does the elek-tizzi-tea go in?"

"Dad! This is my work laptop," Percy growled, "I need it. In. One. Piece. And it's running off the battery, not the mains."

But Dad had that manic gleam in his eye, the one that meant he wasn't backing down anytime soon.

"You can't just go poking other people's sensitive electronics with your wand," Percy fumed, "it's just not on."

"Hey, Perc," Ron butted into the argument, "does it have games on it?" he nodded towards the laptop now protectively cradled in his brother's arms.

"No!" Percy snapped.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Snape glared down at his plate; first the Hogwarts Christmas lunch and then, he wasn't sure what depths of insanity to which he must surely have stooped, but tomorrow he'd actually agreed to dinner at the Weasley's. Obviously he had inhaled toxic fumes or some such recently, and it had affected the delicate workings of his brain.

To further dash his hopes of a quite Christmas, the two little hellions sitting the other side of the table were deep in hushed conversation, giggling to one another as they plotted away. The air of up-to-no-good they radiated guaranteed at least one detention in their near future. If he could just catch them at whatever it was they had planned, before they could hurt themselves…

"More onion gravy, Severus?" Minerva offered, her cheeks already a little too rosy from the festive punch.

"No, thank you.."

"Cracker, Severus," the Headmaster smiled at him over the top of his glasses. Snape ground his teeth; if he turned the old man down, he'd moan about it for the rest of the day, just little hints, concerns about him not enjoying the festive spirit, comments about how sad it made him feel…

"Fine," he growled grabbing the end of the blasted object. Delighted, the Headmaster pulled, the cracker exploding in a cloud of purple smoke, a pirate hat complete with stuffed parrot falling out along with a cheap set of gob-stones and a lone white mouse which very sensibly ran for cover.

"No," Snape glared when the Headmaster offered the stupid damn hat to him. Like hell he was putting that ridiculous thing on his head. Bad enough he was wearing a Weasley jumper, black this year, with a hippogriff on the front. It was warm and, if he were to be placed under the most exacting and painful tortures, he might admit to liking it quite a bit…eventually.

Black's too loud laugh echoed around the Great Hall, as Lupin read him the joke from his cracker. Ah yes, small minds easily amused, plus the annoying man had quite obviously been sneaking whisky into his drink.

"I do not understand," the booming growl of Carrow came from the other end of the table, the literal elephant in the room everyone was busily tiptoeing around, "what exactly is the point of this?"

From the corner of his eye Snape could see Carrow holding something up between forefinger and thumb, a garishly coloured crown with ugly fake jewels.

"You're supposed to put it on your head," Black snorted with laughter and before anyone could stop him he'd bounced up out of his seat, tugged the monstrosity from Carrow's fingers and plonked it on the man's head where it perched ridiculously small.

The large man froze.

"See," Black grinned, "a little Christmas spirit for you, now you just need some tinsel or something to drape round your neck…"

To Snape's disappointment, Lupin chose that moment to intervene, pulling the drunken dog-man away before he could really manage to provoke Carrow into doing something interesting like punching him through the nearest wall.

Shame.

The remains of the goose disappeared with a faint pop, and a moment later a flaming pudding replacing it in the centre of the table along with an assortment of dishes filled with mince tarts, ginger bread, iced biscuits, nuts, stuffed dates and sugared almonds.

And typically the students had fallen on it as if half-starved, the two and even three helpings of roast goose and vegetables they had just finished apparently forgotten in the face of sugary delights. He needed a stomach soother just watching the revolting display.

"Pudding, Severus?" the Headmaster said, trying to force a generous helping of the rich sticky concoction onto his plate, much to Snape's horror. "No," he growled reaching for the satsumas, "thank you."

"A delicate constitution," the Headmaster nodded understandingly, "it _is_ tempting to over indulge this time of year…maybe a stomach soother later?" He gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but before Snape could tell him exactly what he thought about _over indulgence_ the annoying man had turned to talk to Flitwick on his other side.

The dreadful duo had disappeared. Snape glared suspiciously across the table at the crumb laden plates and askew chairs. Now why would two first years miss the opportunity for second and third helpings of pudding at Christmas lunch…unless they were up to something.

Trying not to look too eager, he excused himself from the table, though as he passed Carrow, he did have second thoughts. The vicious giant was still wearing the hideous cracker crown but was eyeing Black with a level of speculative interest that personally would have him writing his will. Maybe he was being hasty, but maybe not.

"Severus, would you like Poppy to send you a stomach soother…" someone called after him.

"I can brew my sodding own," he muttered to himself as he dodged round the door, out of the festive mug of the Great Hall and into the cool of the Entrance Hall.

Except the pair seemed to have made good their escape; a visit to the Gryffindor common room yielded nothing and so he began a fruitless circuit of the Castle's more easily found hideaways.

By the time he was forced to dodge down a side passage to avoid Carrow swooping past, Artemis trotting at his heels, he was ready to tear his hair out. Where could two little firsties have disappeared to so thoroughly…except one of them was a Ravenclaw so…

Fifteen fruitless minutes later, he trailed back to the main staircase, wondering if he should give this up as a bad job and retreat back to his rooms and the excellent bottle of whisky Minerva had given him this year.

Above him there was a sound like the rustle of leaves as the portraits that lined the place began whispering and talking amongst themselves. The reason why became clear as there was a sudden flicker of movement up to his left and then a whooping blur of movement shot past him, buzzing blue glowing rings sparking as they came into contact with the balustrade. A second blur closely followed the first nearly toppling as it cornered at the bottom of the stairs.

"What the…" Snape gasped as he tried to make sense of what he had just seen, two small, first year sized bodies on floating boards careening down the main stairs, probably to their deaths at the speeds they were going. He leant over the balustrade as the twin blurs paused momentarily, a predatory snarl spreading across his face as he took in Trebor and Pratt and their unorthodox mode of transport.

Without another thought he gave chase, storming down the staircase and leaping the gap as it began to move, staggering on his landing and nearly turning his ankle, hobbling as fast he could to the next stairs, swearing under his breath.

"Stop right there, Trebor, Pratt!" he bellowed, but either the little idiots had gone temporarily deaf or they were so preoccupied with their nonsense they did not hear. Heaving for breath, he reached the top of the stairs the pair were currently on just in time to see Trebor launch himself and his conveyance into thin air.

For a heart stopping moment Snape almost thought the brat was going to fall to his death, dash himself to pieces on the flagstones below, but then the board hit the banister of a lower staircase and for a triumphant moment Trebor slid down howling with glee, his arms spread wide.

And then the board stuttered, snagged, spilling Trebor down the stone stairs in a squalling heap, the board clattering down after him, his leg obviously broken as he screamed in pain.

"Oh bloody hell," he snarled to himself as he staggered down the stairs even as Pratt used her board to bounce down to the lower staircase with disgusting ease, gliding down to land by her friend.

"Don't move him, Pratt," he yelled as the girl began crying. Bollicking brilliant, just how he wanted to spend Christmas day.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The combat-servitor hissed as it staggered under his blow, nearly falling to what passed as its knees, Carrow dodging the wild swing it sent his way, rolling on his heels to send a swift hook to its jaw. Dazed, the thing shook its head as it took a step backwards. A kick to the side of the knee and it collapsed to the sand floor of the duelling pit. Carrow finished it off with a quick chop to the neck.

Sighing in satisfaction, he rolled his neck, relieved to find the tension from that blasted festive meal had finally dissipated. He had of course excused himself at the first polite opportunity. There was just something about being told that he needed to be "happy" and "jolly" for the next two hours that really got his hackles up, not to mention that ridiculous hat.

Shoving the combat-servitor back into storage, he reached for his practice weapons, sword…mace…staff…he hefted the weighted weapon in one hand a moment, before trying a few experimental swings. Drifting back into the centre of the training pit, he began a sequence of basic strikes and blocks, checking his form and stance as he moved.

"Ah, there you are," a decidedly unwelcome voice called from above. Suppressing a growl of annoyance, Carrow glanced up to find the Headmaster leaning against the balustrade watching him with a interested smile.

"A shame you missed the after meal frolics," Dumbledore continued unperturbed by the scowl Carrow sent his way. "Sirius charmed all the chairs to run races around the hall, while Fillius made the cutlery dance. It really was quite the spectacle."

He was sure it was. Such frivolous behaviour he could truly do without, Carrow thought as he swung the tip of his staff round in an arc at neck height, imaging the old man's head popping of like a cork, a geyser of blood gushing out. He'd probably get into a lot of trouble if he actually tried it, even if he ate the evidence; he sighed regretfully.

"Such a shame you missed it," Dumbledore said, "and thinking of things that are a shame it is extremely sad to think of Durmstrang being no more. I've had a number of requests from various parents in Norway and Sweden to transfer their offspring here next September; should make the sorting ceremony more interesting."

Not his problem. Carrow spun, flicking the top of the staff down, round and up in a blow that would crush a normal man's pelvis.

"I understand now that the incident at Durmstrang was directly related to Voldemort and his continued influence over poor Igor," Dumbledore sighed as he strolled around the edge of the training pit his fingers trailing lightly along the balustrade, "so sad…if only he'd asked for help."

He paused a moment, and Carrow gritted his teeth, beginning a more complicated series of movements.

"Talking about people not asking for help…"

Carrow hunched his shoulders, slightly muffing a down strike to the shoulder blade. Even more annoyed he forced himself to relax.

"…the Old Crowd…the Order would have been delighted to assist you in your…rescue and extermination at Durmstrang…"

Carrow glared at the Headmaster, thumping the end of the staff down in the sand. Did the man have no sense at all?

"At the very least we could have assisted in leading survivors from the school," Dumbledore smiled at him.

Carrow shook his head at the sheer naivety. "Absolutely _not_ ," he growled.

"We could have taken a weight off your shoulders," Dumbledore tried arguing with him, "looked out for the more vulnerable."

"You would have all become more potential victims," Carrow sneered in disgust, "more squishy little meat sacks for me to protect."

Dumbledore gave him a disapproving look. "I'm sure it wouldn't come to that. In fact…"

A hard knock on the classroom door interrupted the old man before he could really get going again, much to Carrow's relief. He stood on his tiptoes to see what the God-Emperor sent diversion was, only to find Snape standing in the doorway looking even more dour than normal.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, "is everything well?"

"Mr Trebor has had an accident," Snape's dark eyes caught his a moment, "Madam Pomfrey is seeing to him as we speak."

His son…an accident…what had the boy got himself into now? He leapt from the duelling pit without a thought, striding past Snape and out into the corridor.

.oOo.

The howls of protest assured Carrow that young Felix's injuries weren't too serious when he entered the Hospital Wing. Half way down the apothecorium, he spied Madam Pomfrey ministering to his son while Tiffany Pratt watched in obvious distress, a hover board leaning against her legs, its design of pink, green and orange reptiles clashing horribly with her blue stripy leggings; her parents had even provided her with knee and elbow pads, in a completely different shade of pink.

Concerned to save the integrity of his retinas, he glanced around. Nearby Lupin and Black stood bickering quietly with one another, his son's brand new hover-board clutched in Lupin's hands.

Ah. It looked as if young Felix had possibly enjoyed his seasonal gift a little too much. Carrow almost smirked as he quietly padded over to where his son lay. "What happened?" he asked, hiding a smirk when the Healer clutched at her chest and the two men startled hard, Lupin's eyes flashing amber for a moment.

"Bloody bastard," Black snarled, not nearly quiet enough.

Madam Pomfrey recovered enough from her shock to send a vicious glare towards Black before turning to Carrow himself. "As you can no doubt see, Mr Trebor has managed to break his leg. Fortunately, Professor Snape witnessed the accident and brought him to me promptly." She gave him a look that would have sent a normal person scurrying for safety. "Some skele-grow and an overnight stay and he'll be as right as rain…despite his protests."

Carrow's lips twitched in amusement as he took in Felix's tearful expression of fury, his fluffy black ears flattened back against his skull as he glared back, bottom lip wobbling in indignation.

"And as long as he keeps away from that infernal device," Pomfrey snapped, jabbing an angry finger at the hover board Lupin was still clutching in his hands, doing his best to keep it from the overly interested Black.

"Ah," Carrow raised an eyebrow.

"Fancy thinking he can slide down the balustrades of the main staircase on that thing," she grumbled, "whatever will these muggles come up with next." She shook her head in disgust.

"Sirius," Lupin hissed in exasperation and Carrow turned to find that Black had finally managed to wrestle the hover board from Lupin's hands. Uninvited, Black dropped the board to the floor, the rings on its underside buzzing into life, leaving it floating six inches above the stone paviers. With a devilish grin, Black put a foot on the board, pushing as hard he could with the other, as he clumsily wobbled down the Hospital Wing. Feeling he'd got some speed up, he put both feet up on the board, arms splayed as he fought for balance.

"This is brilliant," he shouted as he reached the end of the ward. Shifting his weight, he attempted the turn only, for the board to shoot out sideways, dumping him in a painful heap on the floor.

"That was predictable," Carrow growled as he strode over, snatching up his son's board, "maybe you should work on improving your balance before you try keeping up with the children," he told the groaning man on the floor.

"What were you thinking," Lupin hissed as he rushed over to pull his friend up, "you're going to be lucky if bruises are all you've got."

"I'm fine Mooney, honestly," Sirius groaned as he levered himself up, "just need to practise more that's all." He groaned as his back clicked. "I don't remember things hurting this much when I had a tumble…Merlin's saggy ball-sack…grief…my poor knees."

Ignoring the whining idiot, Carrow went back to his son. "I will hold this safe for you in my office," he said as the young lad looked up at him from the hospital bed, still obviously distressed at his current predicament. "Come fetch it when you are released." He ruffled the lad's hair. "I admire your ambition, but maybe it would be best to start with a smaller staircase and work your way up."

"Like the back staircase on the sixth floor next to that statue of Wendelin the Weird?" Felix asked with a watery but hopeful smile.

"Exactly," Carrow nodded, ignoring Healer Pomfrey's furious glare.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Never thought we'd see this grotty building again," Caroline muttered as they crouched behind a couple of skips in an alley across the road. The 1960's office block loomed into the night sky, its shabby unloved concrete streaked with water stains, its windows reflecting the orange glow of the streetlamps.

"It's depressing just looking at it," Annie agreed, "that was a bad period for architecture. Give me gothic revival anytime."

"Really?" Caroline said, "I always thought it was a bit clunky myself."

Their personal radios clicked three times, the tinny hiss of static sounding alarmingly loud in the darkness of the alley. "The signal," Annie sighed, "let's go."

They sped across the road so quickly they would have been little more than dark blurs to a casual passerby, round the van of equipment and technical types Carrow had brought in on this mission (probably all nice and cozy and drinking coffee). Without breaking stride, they leapt over a security fence into a courtyard that seemed to be a graveyard for old crisp wrappers and drinks cans. In the corner, a shabby car with flat tyres lurked by a skip and several broken pallets.

Behind the skip, Charles had crouched down in an effort to hide and was now glaring at them. "What took you?" he hissed. "The others are in place already."

"Did the Big Boss really decide to go in through the roof?" Annie asked, as they got into position.

"Yes he did," Charles sighed, obviously regretting being left behind, "jumped from the office block over there, too. Scariest thing I've ever seen."

"Heh," Caroline muttered, carefully gauging the distance and wincing, "no giant splat on the pavement then. Knowing him, though, he'd probably bounce."

"Can we get on with it," Charles whined, " _please_?"

"Fine, fine," Annie muttered, glaring evilly at his back as they got into position, creeping along the wall, the building towering up above them in the orange gloom of the city night.

The fire-exit did little to slow them down, crumbling away with a charm of disintegration. Creeping forward, they made their way towards the emergency stairs, plain concrete things with linoleum treads and metal balustrades, a continuous stain at waist height marked where years of people had trailed their fingers or brushed up against the wall.

"This is even more depressing than the outside," Caroline muttered softly next to Annie's ear. Charles glared at them.

The stairs were eerily quiet, lit only by the odd flickering fluorescent tube-light as they crept up to the eighth floor. As they reached their target, Carrow loomed out of the gloom, crouching beside the fire-doors that would be their exit from the stairwell. Behind him the others lurked, Methuselah busily examining a moth that had perched on the wall.

Carrow gave them a sharp nod as they arrived at the door. "Do you remember what is required of you?" he asked with a scowl. Caroline suspected he was enjoying himself immensely.

Apparently satisfied with everyone's response, Carrow carefully forced his fingers between the door and the frame before prying it away to one side, leaving it in a tangled twisted heap to the side of the doorway. Sliding through, he looked around carefully his plasma pistol ready, before silently loping away.

"Methuselah," Edwin hissed, " _come on!_ "

The elderly vampire gave the moth a regretful glance. "I do believe I have several of this species within my collection….but it is a nice example," he sighed.

Shaking her head in exasperation, Caroline followed Annie and Charles as they went to find the office server. They'd been given strict instructions and even an intense training session on what to do. Apparently, they had to plug something into this marvel of modern technology so the techy bods in the van down below on the street could access all the files and documents of the insurance company the Boring Man they had followed weeks before on a gamble worked for. Why? Caroline could only begin to guess. It wasn't unreasonable to believe Boring Man was operating on his own, supplementing his income with a bit of something on the side. It wouldn't be unheard of…

The company's IT department was tucked away in a couple of cupboard like offices at the back just behind the toilets, the server stuffed in a corner in its very own cupboard. Somebody had tried to cheer it up a bit with a couple of strands of tired looking tinsel.

"This is it, isn't it?" Charles asked, looking rather anxious.

"Think so," Annie trundled forward, pulling the device the techy people had given them out of a pouch. Crouching down, she got to work.

"Guard the door," Caroline muttered to Charles, "I'll search the office."

The male vampire looked distinctly grumpy about the whole thing. "Why me?" he growled back.

"Because I'm nosier than you," Caroline gave him a smirk.

Charles huffed indignantly, but went and lurked in the short passageway outside, his Solaris rifle at the ready as he peered out into the tangle of beige cubicles that made up the main office floor.

"Death Star receiving," Annie muttered into her radio, the device clicking to itself. There was a pause and a hiss of static, a " _Receiving you, Millennium Falcon_ ," then a click and silence.

Caroline began rooting through a filing cabinet which proved to be full of multiple copies of forms, a rather extensive supply of air-fresheners and a stuffed lion.

"Device installed and showing green light, over," Annie replied.

" _Copy, Millennium Falcon, making contact, over._ "

She wasn't sure exactly what she was looking for, but Caroline was sure she'd know when she saw it. The filing cabinet had proven to be duff, but the drawers on the desk were proving to be more interesting. Among the miscellaneous stationary and chocolate bar stash was a collection of those funny plastic disk things that slotted into computers. One of the computer people had assured that these things were on the way out, virtually obsolete and soon to be replaced with those silver disks that always seemed to break in her hands. But obviously this IT department hadn't got that memo…

She began to pull them out, making a neat stack on the desk.

" _Millennium Falcon receiving."_

"Receiving, Death Star," Annie chanted into her radio.

" _Contact established, Millennium Falcon, we'll take it from here. Out._ "

"Millennium Falcon?" Caroline smirked at her friend. "The Big Boss didn't choose that, did he?"

"Nah," Annie said, "I agreed it with the computer freaks just before we left."

The sharp crack of gunfire rattled through the office.

"That's not one of ours," Caroline brought her energy rifle up striding towards the door. "You keep on that thing," she said over her shoulder, "we'll guard."

Annie made a disgruntled noise as the sounds of violence filtered through the office, followed by frantic running and shouting.

"I thought this placed was supposed to be empty," Charles complained.

"Obviously not," Caroline hissed back, getting into a ready crouch, "now concentrate." Charles huffed indignantly, but fell silent as the chaos continued. An office chair flew past closely, followed by a shower of paper, pot plants and other desk paraphernalia. A foot high Christmas tree rolled past, shedding decorations as it went. Several of the cubicle barriers crumpled under the concussive pressure of a blasting hex.

The Boring Man loomed round the corner, blood pouring down his face, coming virtually nose to nose with Charles. He looked decidedly ruffled and battered, his previously cold eyes now full of fearful rage.

They both brought their weapons up to bear on the frantic muggle, but Charles was too close. The Boring Man was inches away, something flashed in his hand, something white, metal, _blade_. Caroline tried to shout a warning, but the knife, _silver,_ was already entering Charles's gut, his eyes wide and shocked, mouth opening to shout, to warn…

Caroline pulled the trigger of her Solaris rifle, the flash of super-heated plasma hitting the Boring Man in the side of the head, vaporizing much of his skull, just as Charles went rigid, cracks forming in his skin as he crumbled to the floor in a pile of lumpy dust and suddenly empty gear, his rifle landing beside his remains with a clatter.

"Charles? _Charles!_ " Caroline's frantic screams brought Annie running, her gun at the ready. She came to a screeching halt as she took in the scene of carnage.

"Oh, Merlin!" she gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, horrified as the blood of the Boring Man seeping into the grubby beige carpet by her feet.

"Stay on guard," Carrow snarled, as he loomed into view. Annie jumped, guiltily pulling her Solaris into a more defensive position. Shouldering past, Carrow took in the pile of lumpy ash and clothing lying next to a headless corpse, his expression indecipherable.

Caroline stared at the immortal remains of her sort-of friend. They'd known each other for nearly a century, fought, argued, bickered…and now he was going to get trodden into someone's carpet like so much ash. He didn't deserve it, no matter how annoying he'd been, but it happened to so many of their kind, a pile of ash blown away in the wind, swept away like so much trash…

"He died fighting." The sudden boom of Carrow's voice made them jump. "Has the server been downloaded?" he snapped.

"Erm, I, err…I'll check," Annie scuttled off, almost flushing pink she was so embarrassed.

"We cannot, will not, leave him here," Carrow announced.

Caroline looked at him in surprise, a tickle of something, hope maybe, growing at the back of her mind.

"You!" Carrow pointed one enormous finger at one of the others. "Find a container, _now_."

The vampire, thin and nervous, leapt to attention, scurrying off among the destruction, frantically looking for something suitable. John…or Andrew maybe, Caroline thought distractedly, one of the young ones she barely knew. He'd only been turned a decade or so. Maybe in fifty years she'd be able to remember his name…and now, of course, there were only twelve of them…

"Sir, download complete," Annie called from the cramped office. "Sir?" she put her head round the doorway when she received no reply.

John, or Andrew, or maybe Matthew, scuttled back holding a large plastic tub with a lid. "Will this do?" he babbled, "I tipped the contents out. I hope that's okay, I…erm…maybe…it's a little too large I think. I could go and…"

"It's _fine,_ Andy." Annie shoved past, grabbing the storage tub from the dithering vampire. Quickly they worked together to gather up the crumbling ashen lumps that had once been Charles, placing them in the tub, Caroline gently pouring out the ash trapped in his garments before folding them and passing them to one of the others.

"There's still a lot of…of…ash on the floor," Edwin whispered, as he stared blankly at the mess on the grubby carpet.

"I have an idea," Annie said as she bounced up and sprinted off amongst the remains of the office.

"What?" Edwin asked dazed, looking as if his world had caved in.

Caroline shrugged, "I don't know."

A thumping squeaking sound announced Annie's return as she triumphantly presented them with the office vacuum cleaner. It was a squat red and black affair, with curiously, a smiling friendly face on the front, the hose acting as its nose.

"And we're going to need this too," she waved a brown cardboard bag thing, "I've seen the cleaning ladies do it, so it can't be too hard."

"Erm…why would we need to do that?" Andy asked.

"So we've got _all_ of Charles, or as much of him as we can gather," Caroline gave him a withering stare, "and so poor Charles doesn't get mixed up with random office carpet fluff and dog hair and who knows what that's been trodden in here."

"Exactly," Annie glared at Andy, who was now hunched up and trying to hide behind Methuselah.

"A most excellent idea. Very efficient," Carrow said, as he knelt down beside the vacuum cleaner. "Now how do we go about changing the…bag of this infernal machine? I have also seen the staff perform this maintenance ritual, but I do not know what prayers of appeasement for its machine spirit should be uttered." He gave the vacuum cleaner a dubious prod.

"Machine spirit?" Annie mouthed at Caroline obviously puzzled.

Caroline shrugged; frankly, she had no clue either.

.oOo.

Carrow sighed in annoyance as he felt the Headmaster trip his wards in the corridor that lead to his private lair, the school's old fencing hall that he had once again claimed as his own. It would have been so much better if he'd been allowed to bring a security servitor with him. He had built several improved models since that first one, but both the Headmaster and Timothy had said _no_ ; something about beards.

He shifted the plastic tub containing Charles's ashes on the altar in the hope he could find its best angle. How could something be so aesthetically unappealing…and too light, not at all a true reflection of the life it once been just twenty-four hours previously. Charles deserved something better, in marble perhaps.

"There you are, Allesandor," the Headmaster's cheerful voice drifted across the fencing hall. "I hope I'm not interrupting something important…I couldn't help but notice how sombre your…friends were on your return. I hope nothing untoward occurred on your errand."

Bowing to the altar Carrow stepped to one side revealing the unaesthetic tub.

"My word," the Headmaster breathed, "is that…"

"The mortal…immortal remains of Charles," Carrow raised an eyebrow, "it is indeed. He was the victim of an unfortunate event." Oh, for a security servitor to chase the annoyances away.

"Your errand was more dangerous that you expected," the Headmaster looked up at him, expression unusually serious.

Carrow resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Danger lurks everywhere, Headmaster, always the enemies of Humanity strike out of the shadows. 'Tis wise to always be prepared for them. Charles's unfortunate demise was very sudden, but he died fighting for what is right."

The Headmaster nodded politely. "You know, we could help you…the Old Crowd," he elaborated when Carrow stayed silent.

Oh yes. The vigilante group, Carrow smiled round tightly gritted teeth. How unfortunate the ban on servitors had been written into the school by-laws, in highly specific terms too…but if he didn't use bones as the basis and also avoided making it look like a Terran type creature…it would be more fiddly maybe, but not impossible.

"We're not just pretty faces you know," the Headmaster's chuckle sounded oddly flat in the silence of the fencing hall. "We could assist you in your, er…endeavours," the old man smiled.

Maybe he should stop protecting these people from their naïve stupidity. Give them a taste of the realities that stalked the boundaries of their cosy and comfortable little world.

"If you wish it," his smile broadened, "I will inform you of my next mission."

"Wonderful," the Headmaster smiled happily, reaching up to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder, "you won't regret this, you'll see. Must go and attack the school bureaucracy now; you know how it is, I'm sure the paperwork breeds on my desk."

Carrow watched as the Headmaster retreated, a spring in his step. "No, I'm sure I won't regret this," he told the silence of the fencing hall.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

He'd run out of room on the brain-storming board sometime ago, even when he started taping sheets of lining paper to the wall around it as a stop-gap extension. It now stood sentinel, a silent witness to the utter carnage that his lab now was.

Sighing, the God-Emperor stretched and cricked his neck; he'd been working non-stop since the premonition had hit him, and though the urgency had died down somewhat it was still there a heavy weight at the back of his mind, a sleep depriving heavy weight.

He glanced round the lab, groaning at the mess that confronted him; this was going to be an absolute pain to tidy up and organise; he grimaced as he took in the snowdrift of drawings by his desk. He could see a plan for a space station built into an asteroid, a roving luna habitation pod, even a diagram of a method of reclaiming water that could possibly be used on space ships…

But first coffee…something to eat…possibly a shower…

Electric kettle on, he began rooting through the cupboards, looking for his emergency pot noodle stash. Hopefully the crazies from bio-mechanics hadn't raided them again for one of their artificial liver experiments.

It had been a very long time since he'd had such an overwhelming urge to…create. That was probably the kindest thing he could call it, he thought as he inhaled his chicken noodles. And now he'd got to organise it all.

"Where do I even begin?" he said to the room. They needed a proper spaceship really, but the shuttle-craft like Big Bertha would probably do for now, at least as far as the Moon. But then they needed lunar habitats, water recycling facilities, air recycling, CO2 scrubbers, a way of growing fresh food…he didn't even want to think of about the cost of transporting supplies to feed a small village for any length of time. It would quickly get prohibitive…so what if…

There was a knock, and he looked up more than a little embarrassed as Arithmancer Strange put her head round the door, her eyes widening as they took in the paper carnage of the normally tidy lab.

"I had a few ideas," he grinned sheepishly scratching the back of his head.

Strange sidled carefully round the door a folder clutched in her arms. "I see," she said, slowly gazing round at the heaps of drawings. "I take it this is our work for the next few decades then."

"Err…more like the next year, I hope," the God-Emperor inwardly winced as her expression became overwhelmed. "I'm not sure all of it is relevant," he tried to reassure her, "I'm certain there's something in here for a roving underwater habitat that had got nothing to do with…" he took a deep breath, "basically, we _need_ to go to Mars in the next year. As a matter of urgency."

"Mars? A year?" Strange seemed dazed at the thought, though she rallied quickly, "I suppose this seems quite irrelevant now," she sighed as she looked down at the folder in her arms. "What's a proposal for a satellite to study the Earth's magical fields in the face of all this?"

"We can do that too," the God-Emperor said, "may I see?"

Strange perked up. "Do you want me to toss some of the juniors your way? Help get this organised?"


	6. Chapter 6

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

 _I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

* * *

Author's Note

Unfortunetly this is unbeta-ed due to a work related clash, basically Jacobus-Minoris is shattered. It will probably get looked over at the weekend.

I've also nearly caught up with myself with chapters I've already finished

…must…write…faster…

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

Sniffling, Caroline dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. The thing had been white once, but was now a wretched blood stained rag. Annie wasn't much better, standing beside her, bloody tears streaking down her cheeks as she watched with rapt attention.

The wall paintings were just visible in the flickering candle light, the various unfamiliar saints, heroes and even monsters watching this special service in interest. Some had even moved closer for a better look.

Charles was receiving a funeral, a _real_ funeral, his ashes now decanted into a white marble urn decorated with a laurel wreath and winged skulls, a small brass plaque engraved with his name and…they'd never been quite sure how old he'd been. Caroline doubted he had known either, and so the plaque merely proclaimed his date of death. _Died in Action_ it proclaimed underneath.

The buzzing drone of the servitors' chant seemed to swell as two of their number swung censors, releasing billowing clouds of myrrh scented smoke into the flickering shadows of the Chapel. Others held thick candles decorated with symbols of death. Another held a large purple cushion trimmed with black fringing and tassels. On it lay Charles's personal weapons, from his Cadia, specially polished, to the small clasp knife he'd had in his procession for as long as she'd known him.

Carrow stepped forward, his prayer book clasped in his hands, his imposing figure swathed in black hooded robes, as he joined in the servitors' chanting.

"… _Love the Emperor,_

 _for He is the salvation of mankind._

 _Obey His words,_

 _for He will lead you into the light of the future._

 _Heed His wisdom,_

 _for He will protect you from evil._

 _Whisper His prayers with devotion,_

 _for they will save your soul._

 _Honour His servants,_

 _for they speak in His voice._

 _Tremble before His majesty,_

 _for we all walk in His immortal shadow…" *_

Caroline managed to catch among the High Gothic.

Annie chocked back a sob as Carrow gently picked up the urn and paced over to one of the skull racks. Part of it had been removed to make way for an elaborately carved and gilded niche that bore a great resemblance to a shallow side-table to Caroline's mind, one which had become a hiding place for an agonised statue of a mouldering body complete with marble maggots. It had been a long time since she'd seen such an impressive momento mori. The lump in her throat grew, overwhelming her until, to her intense surprise, she could no longer control her tears.

Those around her weren't much better, Edwin trembling as he watched the proceedings with an inhuman intensity, his cheeks stained pink in a ghastly imitation of life, Methuselah dabbing at his cheeks with a lace trimmed handkerchief, the other younger more immature vampires watching in incomprehension. Beyond them stood Timothy, Wulfric and the rest of Timothy's team, as well as various members of the Lodge's staff, all watching at a respectful distance, their expressions grim. Natasha…Natasha was attempting to chew one of the servitors…

Blast it; Caroline frantically looked round to see if anyone else had spotted the little monster up to her usual tricks, but no such luck. Cautiously, she sidled past the others, grabbed the little pest and dragged her back to the other Coven members. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Timothy's lips twitch in amusement, but when she turned to look at him he was his usual poker-faced self. At least some people knew how to behave with decorum, she thought as she gave Natasha a little shove towards Edwin and re-took her place next to Annie.

As Carrow placed the urn in its final resting place, the chanting of the servitors reached a crescendo, and Annie, unable to contain her emotions any longer, broke down into choking sobs, burying her face in Caroline's shoulder. Wrapping her arms around her friend, Caroline watched in a daze as the servitor bearing Charles's weapons stepped forward and placed them on their ridiculous pillow in front of the urn. Wreaths and bouquets of flowers followed as candle stands were placed on either side.

More prayers were intoned but she wasn't really paying attention by then, until finally the servitors stalked away in a neat procession, Carrow following in their wake, head bowed.

"Is it over?" Annie whispered as they disappeared through the double doors.

"I…I think so," Caroline whispered back feeling quite emotionally wrung out. It had been a very long time since she'd last had anything to do with a Church service and what Carrow had just provided them with had borne only the slightest resemblance to what she could remember, but it didn't matter…the recognition…the thought…she couldn't find the words. Around them the others began to shift, a murmur of conversation beginning to grow as the small crowd began trailing out of the doors.

Annie trailed forward still sniffling to examine Charles's memorial more closely, and for more personal mourning. Caroline smiled sadly as the younger vampire clasped her hands in silent prayer.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Timothy said as he approached, looking utterly exhausted, the scars that marred his face standing out starkly, Wulfric behind him obviously uncomfortable. "For _all_ your loss…" he ran a nervous hand through his hair, "I…Charles, he died fighting, I understand?" His attempt at a sympathetic smile was more of a painful grimace.

Caroline nodded, trying to smile through her tears, but failing miserably. She swiped at an errant tear that threatened to embarrass her.

"You must have been to a fair few funerals over the years," Timothy sighed as he gazed up at Charles's memorial.

"Not really," Caroline shrugged at his surprised look, "nobody really mourns the loss of a vampire, not really…except for Carrow."

"It's a…thoughtful gesture of Mr Carrow," Timothy nodded solemnly, "shockingly nice actually," he added quietly casting a thoughtful glance towards the Chapel doors Carrow had disappeared through.

"He's one of us," Annie appeared beside them her cheeks streaked with pink, Caroline suspected she didn't look much better. "One of ours," Annie added daring anyone to disagree.

Caroline smiled at her, fondly gently taking her hand and tucking it into her elbow, letting the smaller vampire lean against her.

"Will you be all right for the New Year's celebration tomorrow?" Timothy asked, concern in his remaining eye.

"Of course," Annie bristled pulling herself upright. They exchanged glances. "Yes, we'll definitely be there," Caroline said jaw set stubbornly, "for Charles…he wouldn't have missed it if he could…"

"Er, guys," Wulfric said, "has anyone seen Natasha recently?"

Standing on tiptoes, she glanced around. No Natasha. Caroline rolled her eyes; seriously, Edwin couldn't keep a tree-stump from running away.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Do you want another drink, Snack?"

Sirius gave the dainty female vampire a sickly smile, trying to edge away as unobtrusively as possible. "Ah, no, no …I'm err ….I'm fine, thanks…"

She nodded and smiled. "Have you put your name down for a fight yet?"she said, tilting her head, her blonde curls shifting prettily.

"No, no it's ….it's fine," Sirius swallowed nervously, his mind whirling in panic. He did his best, smiling at the vampire, but it must have come out wrong because she raised her eyebrows.

"Well, if you're sure…the list is over by the buffet."

He sagged in relief as she retreated back to her dark haired friend, her pale blue robes swaying around her ankles as she went, revealing odd body armour that definitely wasn't made of dragon hide. Her friend was equally strangely dressed in hard metallic armour that had been polished to a glossy black sheen, its gilded decoration of foliage and flowers glimmering in the flat bright light of the large room they were in.

What in Merlin's saggy scrotum was he doing here? He swiped as his face trying to blink away the hideous memories of being locked in a gilded cage in nothing but a gold lamé thong. Seriously, he hadn't been able to bring himself to eat parsley since. Just looking at the stuff brought him out in a cold sweat.

And yet here he was, placing himself in the mouth of the beast once again, all because of some legal stuff suggesting Godric's Hollow should have some sort of permanent DMLE presence. Obviously Azkaban really had sent him barking…but not barking enough to put his name on that stupid list.

Across the duelling pit hung giant glass bubbles containing- Sirius groaned- the vampires' buffet, and from the looks of it he'd got off very lightly with the whole gold lamé thong thing. Each bubble was part filled with downy white feathers, the occupants covered only in shimmering body paint that shifted from gold to purple to green.

And of course, from their elevated position they had a grandstand view of the violence occurring in the duelling pit below. That must really make them feel all at one with the world.

Snape, of all people, was currently sparring someone in a flurry of spell light, strange movement and hastily conjured random objects. The man's duelling robes were still covered in gore from taking on a full grown acromantula with nothing but a sword. Sirius had made a mental note after witnessing the brutality to avoid the Potions master even more in the future, because obviously Carrow was contagious in some way.

So, yeah, Snape had been a bastard and he'd been, yeah, immature or something, but Snape had only been a bastard in a normal sort of way then, but now…now he kept smirking at him as if he knew something he didn't…which yeah...he probably did, on closer reflection.

Sirius shuddered as a particularly nasty mustard yellow curse thwipped past mere inches away from Snape's face. Oh yeah, the infamous blood-to-acid hex, how he'd loved having that chucked at him as a very junior Auror on bottom scraping duty on the weekends in Knockturn. It was also illegal, five years in Azkaban, if he remembered rightly.

Carrow … he peered over at where the giant bastard was holding court among the floating sofa thingies, swathed in ridiculous cloth-of-gold robes. Typical, obviously totally not bothered by the legalities or otherwise of people tossing dark curses at one another for fun and giggles. Suddenly, the giant man rose, striding confidently towards the fighting pit, discarding the flashy brocade robe as he went.

Oh ….looked like Snape had finished his fight then, and still had all his limbs attached. Shame. Best to make himself scarce before old Snivelly could grab him and force him into the ring himself.

A large hand landed on his shoulder, the sudden weight almost sending him to his knees. Horrified, Sirius looked up to find Carrow smiling down at him, a spark of amusement in his glacial eyes.

"Sirius, 'tis good to see you," the giant boomed. "It was so thoughtful of you to explain festive traditions to me, so…"

If he changed to Padfoot and sprinted, Sirius wondered, would he get to the door before he could be caught?

"…I thought this would be a wonderful opportunity for you to join in _our_ traditions."

Sirius suddenly found himself physically propelled towards the duelling pit, completely unable to do anything about it as a short sword was thrust into his grasp, a large hand shoving him into the pit.

Spluttering and panicking now Sirius looked up, clasping the sword desperately to his chest. "Hey," he protested, wincing at how weak he sounded, drawing back as the guests, the vampires, that creepy Faulks guy, _Snape_ , random weirdos, his bloody godson all gathered round the balustrade to watch.

"I've laid on something special for you," Carrow smirked down at him gesturing to someone or something, "enjoy."

There was a grating rattling sound and Sirius spun round to find the barred gate on one of the many arched enclosures that lined the duelling put retreating, the space beyond a dark forbidding pit.

Gulping, Sirius scrambled to get a proper grip on the short sword, desperately trying to remember something, anything from the fencing lessons his darling parents had forced on him before Hogwarts. The pointy end went towards your opponent, he remembered that much at least; left hand for your sword, right hand for your wand. Damn and there he was nearly forgetting he was a wizard.

Trying to still the trembling in his hands, he sidled round making sure something solid and non-stabby was at his back.

Something was coming out of the shadows, something definitely not human that drooled on to the sand of the pit. A large metallic paw tipped with talons daintily tested the ground a moment until, apparently satisfied, the thing prowled forward, its hunched shoulders looming out of the darkness.

"Oh fuck," Sirius whispered, a tiny doggy part of his mind whimpering in terror at the awful creation of his Godson. The utter bastard had left the hair on the human part of the thing's head and it trailed down, long, black and matted around its wolf-like face, a brass and steel construction that had been bolted onto the front of its skull, with, he couldn't help but notice, very sharp looking teeth. Really sharp looking teeth…definitely flesh tearing…

How the hell was this thing even legal…of course it wasn't legal. He swallowed and sweat trickled down his spine, making his second favourite t-shirt stick to his back.

"Well, in for a knut, in for a galleon," he muttered, might as well get stuck in.

With a flick of his wand, he began a spell chain that had been drilled into them during Auror training, until they could do it in their sleep. The series of silent flicks, sweeps and jabs sending a series of hexes and curses, some of them borderline legal, towards the hideous construction, kicking up dust, some crashing against the duelling pit wall as the thing attempted to dodge, screaming in rage as a blasting curse caught it full in the shoulder.

Too much to hope that he'd actually incapacitated the stupid thing in any way. Holding his weapons ready, he crept forward, heart racing like a nifler that had spotted gold.

The thing was intelligent, Merlin curse it, and his bloody Godson too, using the kicked up dust as cover. There was a rustle to his left, a low growl. Whirling he sent another series of hexes and curses into the cloud, grinning in triumph when the thing, far too close to him, howled in rage.

And then suddenly it lunged towards him, and it was too close and he was trying to get the sword up and doing something useful, and somehow he was on his back scrambling with the thing trying to keep its wicked jaws away from his throat while it tried to pin his shoulders down.

Wrenching his arm free, he stuffed his hand, wand and all in the thing's mouth sending an overpowered melting hex down its throat. The thing coughed and whined, a strange rattle spreading through its body as it staggered away.

Seeing his opportunity, Sirius scrambled to his feet, sword clutched in his hands. Staggering after the artificial monster, he gripped the sword in both hands as he followed the wounded thing across the sand, plunging the weapon deep into the thing's neck. There was a nasty crunch as something gristly snapped under the blow and the creature wheezed one last time, a drawn out sigh as it slowly crumpled to the sand in a tangle of limbs.

Heaving a breath, he staggered sideways feeling as if he'd been sprinting a marathon and there was something damp on his face. His hand came away smeared with blood.

His wand…oh crap, where was his wand. He began frantically searching the sand, even as above him applause began, Carrow's mob cheering and whistling their approval.

There it was; he skidded towards the fragile stick frantically checking it over for any damage, clutching it to his chest as he suddenly became aware of the sheer volume of the applause.

Wishing he could just apparate away and curl up in his nice comfy bed, Sirius limped towards the steps out, intent on a stiff drink (though probably not, his bloody Godson and his bloody alcohol free parties) and finding a quiet corner to slump in.

But no such luck. All of a sudden the vampire ladies were hugging him in a non-neck-biting way, creepy Faulks actually smiled at him (or maybe he was in pain, it was hard to tell), the sodding Godson giving him one of his superior approving smirks. And then Snape appeared among the crowd, actually smiling (sort of) offering his hand to shake, which he did. Gingerly.

He was still clutching his wand to his chest, feeling quite out of it when the crowd parted revealing a strange procession, the vampire coven walking together towards Carrow, one of them carefully carrying a goblet, their eyes red with blood lust, their fangs prominent as they swallowed back their saliva.

With anticipation they came forward together until all the vampires stood together in front of Carrow. The one holding the goblet of blood stepped forward. "Sir," he began in a tone of utmost respect, "please accept this as a token of allegiance between the Slink Alley Coven and yourself, we accept you as one of us." The vampires expectantly eyed the giant, some shifting nervously.

The giant, his face impassive stood and reached towards the goblet. "I accept this token of allegiance, this symbol of brotherhood...and sisterhood," he added with a small smile at the pointed glares of the female vampires. He paused a moment, "and to fallen comrades." He raised the goblet again to the assembled vampires. Lifting it to his lips, he downed its contents in one, the party crowd cheering their approval.

Sirius turned away utterly repulsed at the sight, his stomach churning in rebellion, only to find himself looking straight at a colour-shifting corpse lying in a crumpled heap near the wall, his throat slit from ear to ear.

The sooner he got to leave this crazy blood fest the better.

A great cheer went up as Carrow leapt down into the pit himself, a grinding clank signalling the release of some creature or other. Now the monster was occupied, he sidled over to the buffet, doing a detour around that vampire-esque freak Faulks who was talking to…was that a _muggle_?

Certainly he'd seen the man's in-desperate-need-of-a-trim hairstyle and shaggy beard on many a wizard, but the ugly jumper striped in brown, orange and green, and the saggy shapeless brown shorts were all wrong, not to mention the black socks and sandals combination the man was wearing. Even the most taste challenged wizard managed something better than that, at the very least more colourful.

And his monster Godson and his party arranging skills were obviously getting to him if he was having entire conversations with himself in his head.

He caught snippets of the odd pair's conversation as he passed…

"… _new addition to the property_ …"

"… _paintings are new too, Bernard…"_

"… _but the_ _authenticity and integrity need to be maintained…_ "

Seemed the short man was objecting to Carrow's wall paintings and other decorative additions. Apparently this bit of the Lodge should look …new, and the monster's interior design choices went against this. Apparently, legal action could be taken even. Sirius shook his head at the inexplicable argument.

Yep, the buffet still looked mostly edible. Some of it was quite obviously meant for vampires or people who didn't mind their food extra rare and possibly still moving. Ooh, sandwiches, they'd got to be safe, hadn't they, lettuce and something and small meat pies…on second thoughts, given the crowd, maybe he should leave the pies where they were…

" _Hey, hey!"_

He looked round at the oddly familiar voice.

" _Oi, Padfoot, over here, you smelly old dog!"_

Sirius looked round in surprise, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the portrait of the last people he'd expected to see.

Sat on a side table, and surrounded by fresh flowers and votive candles, the smoke of incense curling up from a brass dish, the portrait of James and Lily waved enthusiastically at him, delighted smiles on their faces.

"Sirius, it's wonderful to see you again," Lily sighed happily, almost tearful.

"You're looking good," James winked at him, "sooooo, found a nice chick to …." Lily elbowed him in the ribs, hard. A hard lump rising in his throat, Sirius smiled at these shadows of two of his most favourite people in the world.

"Seriously, how are you doing?" James asked a little anxiously.

"Er...I'm fine. Yeah, I've been doing up the old family home, and I've been helping Remus with his teaching, you know," he shrugged, "when he needs it." James nodded in understanding.

"Teaching," Lily said.

"Yeah, History of Magic at Hogwarts," Sirius nodded.

"That's wonderful, no more history nap-time! " Lily looked delighted, James grinning cheerfully beside her. His expression suddenly turned thoughtful.

"So what happened to Binns, then?"

Sirius froze. He'd heard stories, each more ridiculous than the last, animal sacrifice, someone practising necromancy…as if Dumbledore would ever let that happen at Hogwarts…someone attempting to commune with demonic forces…

"He moved on, I think…and err…yeah, and err … I've even taken up the family seat on the Wizengamot," he admitted, desperate to change the topic.

James seemed floored for a moment. "Politics, _you_?" he squeaked.

"Yeah, well," Sirius grimaced in embarrassment, "it's a bit sink or swim with my darling little Godson…your, err… _Harry_ …ripping through the Ministry like a rabid Hippogriff." He glared darkly at the fighting pit where Carrow was currently engaged in a fist fight with a full grown mountain troll. Disturbingly, he seemed to be winning.

"I worry about him too", Lily said.

Sirius stared at her uncomprehending for a moment. Obviously being a portrait turned you mad after a while; just look at Mumsy darling.

"Padfoot, will you look after our little bambi for us?" Lily asked, leaning forward to peer up at him. He glanced back at the fighting pit. Carrow had managed to get the troll in a one-armed neck lock, and was now punching it repeatedly in the face, his expression a terrifying mask of manic pleasure. "Sirius?" Lily peered up at him anxiously.

"Er, sure, sure," Sirius sagged in resignation, "course I'll look out for him."

oOo

Damn, that had been bloody stressful. Sirius plonked himself down on a garden wall a moment as he caught his breath, orienting himself a moment. Next year he was going to make sure he had a prior engagement, alphabetising the family library, washing his hair, something, anything to make sure he didn't have to live through something like that again.

Laughing and chattering, a small group of people passed him on the other side of the road, heading down the hill in the direction of the town centre. They were dressed in strange colour shifting costumes, shimmering wreaths formed from strings of tiny lights on their heads. He watched them go with a frown, the faint sounds of distant music drifting on the cold breeze.

Yeah, something was cracking off in Godric's Hollow and he was going to find out what. A few freshening and repairing charms later, and he was ready to face whatever was down in among those distant lights.

It was like one of those undercover operations he'd taken part in as a young trainee Auror. Going in incognito, mingling with the people, gathering whatever information he could, busting the bad guys…it almost made him feel young again, he grinned to himself as he headed down the hill.

oOo

Godric's Hollow…sleepy? Sirius almost laughed to himself. The pounding music and the chatter of the crowd in the main square was so loud that you had to scream to be heard over it.

And the people…he turned slowly on the spot taking in the swarm of humanity that was crushed into this small space, swirling and shifting around him as they waited for the stroke of midnight…

…there was a man in doublet and hose, complete with a starched lace trimmed ruff but he'd teamed his get-up with muggle trainers, which flashed with light as he danced with his friends…

…an old lady, a rainbow of streamers pinned to her coat, lights wrapped loosely around the brim of her fedora and her walking stick, glowing, slowly shifting colour…

…a muscular lady, tall and strong, clad in something skin-tight, leggings and a sleeveless top, her bare flesh smeared with silver body paint, her attention completely focused on her equally muscular friend, her dark skin streaked with gold…

Wow, muggle party fashion had got really wild over the last ten…twelve years, Sirius thought, as he sidled past a man in dungarees and not much else. The wings sprouting from his shoulders looked so real, radiating warmth and flexing slightly as he shuffled past, the feathers a soft pristine white that just begged to be touched…right, he didn't want to get into an awkward situation or fight, not without at least a few drinks down his neck.

So he'd found the party…the real party, not Carrow's murderous alcohol-free blood-fest joke. Now all he just needed to do was find the booze. He was sure there'd been a pub on the corner by the church. But, he stood on tiptoe as he looked around, he was really struggling to get his bearings. Picking a direction at random, he began to ease his way through the crowd, intent on getting absolutely rat-arsed.

"Going somewhere, sweetheart?" a voice by his shoulder asked, and Sirius turned to find a young woman watching him with a knowing smirk.

"Err…" Sirius said intelligently.

She blinked at him, her white eyelashes startling contrast to her dark skin, her fluffy rabbit ears twitching in amusement among her crown of white curls.

"I err…I'm looking for the booze," he grinned in what he hoped was an enticing manner.

Her smirk broadened. "Looking for the party, are you?"

Sirius nodded eagerly.

"Follow me, old man," she grinned at him, turning and diving into the teeming crowd.

"Old man," Sirius muttered indignantly, suddenly realising he was alone, plunging after her. He soon caught up with her, absolutely fascinated to find that she had a fluffy bobtail peaking out above the low slung waistband of her silver shorts, her only concession to the cold weather being white fur boots and bolero jacket. A tail to match the ears, eh? He smirked watching the appendages in question as they twitched and shifted on the girl's head.

Amazing what muggles could do now-a-days. So much had changed while he'd been locked up in Azkaban, he'd missed so much, spent so much time recovering. And now muggle girls had fluffy rabbit tails…maybe if he played his cards right she'd let him play with it…

They finally escaped the heaving crowd, the rabbit-lady leading him down a narrow cobbled alley between two shops shuttered up at this late hour, dodging around straggling revellers as he tried to catch up with her as she led him towards…

"Is this a disco?" he asked taking in the glowing sign above the doorway. A pocket-watch slowly span against a spiral of lights as playing cards drifted past, while the words " _down the rabbit hole_ " twirled around the whole thing, causing a vertigo like effect.

"A disco," rabbit-lady gave him a funny look, raising an eyebrow as she looked him up and down, "did the eighties not happen to you or something?"

Sirius pouted; these were his posing clothes, his Bay City Rollers t-shirt and a plum velvet suit. They'd worked in 1979, damn it.

"Wizards," rabbit-lady sighed, "come on, disco boy, I know a guy who gives free samples."

"Free samples?" Sirius blinked.

"Yeah, you want a good time, right?" She grabbed his hand, pulling him past the bouncers and into the darkness of the club.

Well of course he did, anything to get rid of the unease he had when he spent too long in his Godson's presence, and there was this getting to the bottom of what was going on in Godric's Hollow, sleepy little country town, which was currently hosting a wild New Year's celebration the like of which he'd never seen…

But the disco…club,whatever this place was, really wasn't helping his nerves right now. It was too dark, the flashing lights revealing a heaving sea of people moving in time to the thudding music that was more felt than heard. To his disappointment, she dragged him past the bar towards a series of alcoves off to one side.

"There'll be time for that later," she grinned over her shoulder at him, "come on." She shoved into an alcove where a young man with long mousy brown hair lounged, long robes hitched up to reveal tight muggle jeans and gold trainers with thick puffy looking soles.

"Hey, Leach. Got a punter for you." She turned to Sirius, "You want a good time, talk to Leach, he'll set you up good." She fished in a pocket a moment, pulling out a small vial filled with an iridescent liquid. "Want to know what we're packing, try a sample."

She passed the vial over and Sirius turned it in his hands a moment. "What's it do?" he asked as he unsealed it.

"Fun!" Rabbit-girl gave him a knowing smile.

"To fun!" He toasted her with the vial. "Bottoms up."

oOo

Groaning, he tried to pry his gummy crusted eyes open, enough to tell the gorilla pounding on the kettle-drums in his head to sod off. What in Merlin's name had he drunk last night?

Half falling, half stumbling from his bed, he staggered towards the bathroom, the floor pitching and rolling like the deck of a ship in a force nine gale under his feet, bouncing off the doorframe as he passed. Still half-conscious, he groped his way towards the toilet intent on relieving the pressure in his bladder.

His feet were getting wet…why were his feet getting wet? Thoughts moving glacier slow, something tugged at the edges of his mind, something that suggested that something was fundamentally wrong. Reaching down unsteadily, he groped around for Lil' Padfoot, except Lil' Padfoot seemed to have gone on holiday, probably somewhere tropical with lots of beautiful ladies and hadn't thought to take him too…or even inform him of said trip, the treacherous little bastard.

Sodding, ungrateful…he groped around where he thought his groin should be, hands coming into contact with unfamiliar soft…moist…folds…someone had stolen his todger. And then the nausea hit him, leaving him doubled up over the toilet bowl, kneeling in a puddle of his own urine as he brought forth a stream of colour changing rainbow sick. What had he drunk last night?

"Master Siri!" Topsy exclaimed behind him her squeaky voice filled with horror at his plight.

He found himself back in bed shortly after, clean at least. Now if only the gorilla pounding inside his skull would get lost…

Last night…he remembered the monster Godson's bloody party all right…and James and Lily's portrait, he smiled sadly to himself…the walk into Godric's Hollow and going to that disco...club thing with that girl…but then it was all a blank. He had a vague recollection of drinking something but after that…nothing.

Rolling over, he winced at the uncomfortable pressure on his chest, readjusted himself as he curled up. Bloody boobs. Nice to look at, play with even, but nobody ever explained how uncomfortable it was to squish them. This was just like that time Snivellus managed to spike his pumpkin juice one breakfast in sixth year and he'd spent the entire day as a girl. Bloody sneaky, greasy, Slytherin twat.

At least it meant this wasn't going to last long, he smiled to himself as he fell back to sleep.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The holidays had been remarkably peaceful, enjoyable even. Snape sighed to himself as he dragged himself reluctantly to the Great Hall in preparation for the evening meal and the return-of-the-bloody-brats, who no doubt were all hyper-active and tired (a terrible combination) and would have of course over-indulged on sweets during the train journey back to school, with the resulting deterioration in behaviour.

"Joyous rapture," he grumbled to himself as he pulled himself up the last few steps into the Entrance Hall just as the blasted clock started chiming, setting off the animatronic warriors in their murderous rampage, the fake blood dribbling down, slowly fading as it went.

If he ever was given the dubious honour of leading the first years into the welcoming feast he would make every effort to time things for the hour; Snape smirked up at the abominable time-piece, put the little brats in the right frame of mind for their sorting.

As the clock died down he was sure he heard a quiet rustle from somewhere close by, a muffled giggle. Students-up-to-no-good senses tingling, he drew his wand, holding it ready as he prowled towards the source of the nonsense; looked like he was going to be handing out the first detention of the New Year.

The teeth rattling bang and shower of glitter hastened his steps, the pained screams spurring him on as he rounded the staircase to find Trebor and Pratt dazed and covered in soot, Pratt holding her hands up as if she'd never seen them before, her fingers a bleeding mess.

"Oh, Merlin!" He scrambled for the phial of pain reliever he always carried. Flicking the lid off, he tipped it down the girl's throat as best he could, scooping her up, intent on getting her to Pomfrey as quickly as possible.

"Don't just stand there, Trebor," he bellowed at the daft boy who was still standing there in a daze, staring at the blackened spot on the flags, "follow me."

oOo

"I want my Mum!" Pratt cried as Pomfrey continued wrapping her ointment coated hands.

Snape rolled his eyes discretely as Pomfrey made vague soothing noises at the daft girl. Fancy trying to modify a Filibuster's wet start firework. She was lucky to have any fingers left at all.

"Really dear," Pomfrey was saying, "you're very lucky you got off as lightly as you did. I can mend the broken bones, and heal your burns. It will be rather fiddly and delicate work what with all those small bones, but it is doable. The missing finger joints on the other hand...I'm afraid that's permanent. I'm not a miracle worker."

Not to mention the flash burns to the face both brats had received…and the missing eyebrows, Snape repressed an amused smirk as he glanced over to where Trebor sat huddled in a blanket on a bed, face red, his fringe a frazzled mess, his eyebrows completely gone...and Carrow looming beside him watching everything with an air of…Snape wasn't sure, maybe bemusement? But it more put him in mind of the one time he'd visited a muggle zoo, the expressions of people as they viewed the animal exhibits.

He watched cautiously as Carrow bent down murmuring something to the boy who nodded sadly, his slumped shoulders heaving a moment as he pulled the blanket more tightly around him. And then the giant man strode off, Snape watching him go suspiciously.

"I want my Mum," Pratt sobbed in the background apparently inconsolable. Silly child, as if her mother could bring her missing digits back.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

It had been going on a week now, more than, and he was still sodding female, his brain beginning to curdle from the self-enforced house arrest. It had seemed like such a laugh at first, but now it had distinctly lost its novelty. He pulled the blanket closer around him as he curled up on the sofa in the TV room. It had once been Mumsie Darling's favourite parlour; refurbishing it for muggle entertainment had been a tricky but worthwhile poke in the eye to her, while allowing him to catch up on ten years worth of missed films, and now so much day-time television his brains were threatening to ooze out of his ears.

But now he was stuck in a pool of his own misery waiting for his sodding body to stop playing nasty tricks on him…he really wanted his wing-wang back…and the more he wanted his willy the more…the more…he couldn't go out like this, he couldn't show his face in public…what if he met someone he knew…what if someone came on to him…

It wasn't that he despised women, far from it, but he was a man, damn it, and this was alien country to him. What the hell was he supposed to do with a bra, and what if…what if his newly acquired lady bits were indeed fully functional, what if… _periods_ …

He shuddered to himself as the theme to _Countdown_ started. No, he needed to do something before things got that far. Everything he'd tried so far did diddly-squat, and he was totally out of his depth. He needed serious (ha ha, look what he did there) help. Remus would know what to do, he was the brainy one out of their sadly depleted group.

"Where is Albert Square?" Mumsie Darling screeched from the painting that hung behind the sofa. "Make it show the Square now, boy!"

"Eastenders isn't on for another couple of hours," Sirius growled, "just shut up will you." Trust the bloody old hag to get snippy just as the wonderful Carol Vorderman came on with her amazing muggle Arithmancy and even more amazing legs.

And he thought the painting of a wind-swept Highland moor would put off snoopers. No such luck; several days ago he turned to find a row of the old hags seated on chairs stolen from other paintings watching the telly in fascination.

"You miserable, ungrateful…"Mumsie growled, showing off her dreadful teeth as she snarled at him.

"There's still the kiddie shows to go yet," he hissed back knowing this was going to go absolutely no where.

"Spiteful boy." And then she smirked at him. "And don't think I haven't noticed your attempt at woman-hood. Pathetic. _You_ don't have the spine for it."

Sirius glared at her, lost for words, before throwing himself back down onto the sofa, pulling the blanket up around his head. The vile old bitch, he fumed to himself.

Fortunately some of the other ancestral biddies had decided to come and join the party in the painting behind the sofa. Except now he was having to tune out a lively debate about the Jackson family predicament and what curses Gita should use on her conniving sister and her lover.

He couldn't take much more of this, or he'd go as batty as the miserable old bitches behind him. There was nothing for it, Sirius unconsciously squared his shoulders, he was going to have to ask for help…and hope Mooney didn't find his predicament too amusing.

oOo

No such luck, sodding mangy werewolves. Sirius scowled at Mooney as the unhelpful idiot slumped to the floor spasming with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks as he rolled helplessly in front of his office desk.

"Sorry," Mooney gasped swiping at his eyes before being overcome by another whoop of laughter. "You look so adorable," the bastard grinned, "can I call you Siri-Belle?"

"Fuck off," Sirius growled. "Look, if you aren't going to help, I'm going elsewhere."

Mooney pulled himself off the floor, plonking himself on a chair as he tried to get himself under control. "I'm sorry Sirius. It's just…is that an old school uniform you're wearing?"

Sirius's scowled deepened; so what if it was? They were some of the few clothes still in storage at home that actually currently fit him. He scuffed his foot on the floor, looking up to find Remus had finally got his hilarity under control.

"So…so what was it?" Remus asked. "Did you get on the wrong end of someone's charm work?"

"A potion I think," Sirius muttered, glaring at the floor again, trying to ignore the pouch of vials in his pocket. Considering the number of little vial thingies he'd found in his pockets the day after the day after…a week ago if he was being honest with himself, he wasn't entirely sure which one had done it, or if it had even been a combination…

"We need to take this to Snape." Remus sprang up, grabbing him, and marching them from the office.

"Wha?"Sirius tried to argue. "Mooney! No! Why do we have to get _him_ involved," he hissed, nervously glancing around as if Snape would pop out from behind a tapestry at any moment.

But Mooney would not be moved and soon Sirius, much to his horror, found himself being poked into Sniv…Snape's office.

Snape glared up at them as they entered, his quill hovering over the essay of some unfortunate student, a drop of red ink slowly forming at the tip.

"Sorry to disturb you Severus," Mooney smiled at the miserable arse, "Sirius has had a little accident and we were wondering if you could help."

"A little accident," Snape was glaring at him now with narrowed eyes, a small smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his lips. "And how did this little accident occur?" His smirk grew.

Shuffling forward, Sirius pulled the pouch out of his pocket, placing it on Snape's desk. Puzzled and suspicious, Snape gently eased it open, his expression going utterly blank as he took in the contents. Sirius watched anxiously as the man carefully examined each vial, turning it in his long fingers, delicately sniffing it, before placing it down on the desk with a small chink in a neat row next to its fellows.

He knew he'd made a complete fool of himself, the wretched hangover alone told him that, but to see it lined up like that, he glanced sideways catching Mooney's horrified expression a moment. Merlin's great big meaty staff...

Snape was leaning back in his chair, staring at him intently over steepled fingers. "You, Mr Black are very lucky to be alive."

"I err…I maybe had a few drinks too," Sirius muttered, "maybe four or five…or six or seven…"

The silence was thunderous.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Severus…Severus," Flitwick's voice came from the fireplace.

Fuming, Snape abandoned his research into Black's stupidity. How the man hadn't managed to completely destroy his liver was beyond him. He was just about to tell his dear colleague exactly what he thought about such badly interruptions, but Flitwick's expression gave him pause.

"Severus, come up to the Hospital Wing, _please_ ," Flitwick pleaded, "it's appalling…"

Snape frowned, what had happened now?

"…Carrow went and got her mother!" Flitwick's expression spoke volumes.

Snape blinked. Though he'd run into young Miss Pratt on a few occasions when he'd visited the Lodge, he'd never met her mother, though he'd heard rumours. Seeing he wasn't going to get any work done, and with his curiosity piqued, Snape gave in to the inevitable. "Fine, I'll come through." There went his nice quiet evening, up the chimney like so much smoke.

He stepped out of the fireplace into Pomfrey's office and chaos.

" _How the bloody hell did my daughter get her hands on sodding fireworks in the first place!?"_ a harsh female voice demanded.

Oh, Merlin's staff. Snape exchanged horrified glances with Flitwick. "She's dreadful," the smaller man whispered, "truly appalling…"

"… _about time you should be checking for these bloody things, Mr Dumbledore…"_

Cautiously, he stuck his head around the doorway to find Faulks of all people standing there stony faced, back rigid. He followed the man's line of sight, and blinked in surprise. Had he actually ingested one of Black's recreational potions?

Standing by Pratt's bed, aggressively jabbing a pink taloned finger into the Headmaster's chest as she made her feelings loudly know, was (he assumed) Pratt's mother, her yellow-blonde curls bouncing angrily, her pink lipstick luminous against her mahogany tan. And then there were her clothes, if he could call them that, that left little to the imagination, her leopard print leggings sagging at the hips, revealing a lacy fluorescent pink thong, her black crop-top showing off acres of crepy mid-riff and cleavage. The woman's only concessions to the season were her fluffy pink booties complete with pom-poms and her shiny pink puffa-jacket.

He barely noticed Carrow looming in the background. A small and cynical part of his mind suggested that maybe the awful man had deliberately set this up for his own entertainment. He wouldn't…would he? He brushed the ridiculous idea away. Appalled and fascinated by turns, Snape sidled over to Faulks. "So, that's Pratt's mother?" he fished.

Faulks didn't disappoint. "She's my cousin," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Really? Snape blinked in surprise as he watched the pink taloned horror threaten Dumbledore with physical violence if he ever let her baby get hurt again.

"Very protective, isn't she," Snape said as he watched her storm over to the Pratt girl who seemed genuinely pleased to see the women, readily accepting her hugs and fussing.

"That's one way of putting it," Faulks ground out.

"Black went into Godric's Hollow after the New Years Party," Snape said as casually as he could.

He had Faulks's full attention now, the younger man's face so rigid and blank he wouldn't be surprised if a knock to the jaw made it shatter. "Apart from imbibing a ridiculous quantity of alcohol," Snape continued, "he also managed to ingest a frankly frightening number of experimental and customised recreational potions of various kinds."

"Oh bloody Throne," Faulks hissed to himself, "is he still…"

"Alive? Oh, yes," Snape said, "though he'll be lucky if he doesn't need a daily restorative for his liver for the rest of his life."

"He's not the only one. There have been quite a few cases of illicit recreational potions changing hands with unpleasant results, enough that the local Police have been asking us to do something." Faulks rubbed at his missing eye with a tired hand.

"It's like the Wild West," he said. "We're…I'm trying to get something through the Wizengamot, a deal with the DMLE so the Hollow gets some more specialised policing and…"

He startled, heart pounding as he reflexively reached for his wand, Faulks clawing for weapons that weren't there. How in Merlin's name had Carrow managed to get all the way across the Hospital Wing without him noticing, Snape glared up at the giant man who smirked back at him, utterly uncaring, before turning to the younger man.

The look of almost paternal pride he was giving Faulks made the hair on the back of Snape's neck stand on end, sending his sense of self-preservation into overdrive. What had brought this out in Carrow…and did he really want to know?

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The Defence classroom was filled with the sounds of grunts and shouts, a resounding thud as someone landed particularly heavily on the mats, the clatter of practice swords filling the air. Carrow smiled down at his data slate. It made him feel almost nostalgic for his time as a young initiate…the training…the camaraderie with his fellow initiates…the occasion he'd caught a sump rat, tied some scrap metal to its tail, then let it loose in the Refectory just as the senior Brothers were breaking their fast…the beating he'd received as punishment had been an acceptable prise to pay.

The tech adepts had worked their wonders on the material downloaded from the server during the office raid, and he assumed, offered the correct prayers and unguents to the Machine God and managed to prize out a wealth of information from in among the data code.

It was blatantly obvious that the office's day-to-day business was in fact fraudulent, a scam where "tele-sales" people contacted unsuspecting members of the public claiming to be from their bank in an effort to extract their account details. But underneath that were hints of other activities of a decidedly more sinister and serious nature, the movement of suspicious objects, illicit books, people even, all carefully coded and hidden in among the ordinary criminality of the tele-sales business.

Was this another off-shoot of the Cult he'd been chasing these past few years, or were these merely people corrupted enough to happily trade with such vile creatures…

…and there were hints of locations, of people they had done business with, some of which he'd already run to ground…but not this one going by the name "the Fox" who kept popping up in the records for a period of six months or so the previous year, before suddenly disappearing. Definitely worth his while taking a look…there was also a suggestion of a place near Nottingham, a mill building that had been used to store something in…or what about this location in Cornwall, an abandoned mine, though it was unclear what it had been used for except it had been abandoned in a hurry…maybe this one would be perfect to prove to the Headmaster just how out of his depth he and his "Order" were…

A hand tugged insistently at his sleeve and he looked down to find a frustrated Felix glaring up at him, black ears pinned back against his skull. "Sir…Allesandor…Dad, it won't fight," he whined shoulders slumping, the picture of utter dejection.

Puzzled, Carrow allowed himself to be led over to the training pit to find one of the few and miserably small aromantula that he'd procured from the Forest for training purposes had been allowed out, but instead of attacking viciously it had curled up in a ball, tightly tucking its long legs around its body.

Tiffany cautiously nudged the creature with the butt of her spear, her hands still lightly wrapped in bandages. The acromantula wobbled gently, spinning lazily on the spot. "I don't think this one's going to play, Felix." She looked up disappointedly. "It's a bit small too, isn't it?"

"Do not fret," Carrow ruffled the cat-boy's hair. "You will get your fight. I will set up one of the training servitors for you," he smiled down at him. It was always heartening the way their young faces lit with excitement.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The Zero-G room (officially known as the Variable Environmental Control Room) was brimming with activity as both the latest model of pressure suit and the future luna habitation models were put through their paces.

The habitation modules had been attached to what was currently a wall to him, glowing a soft white in the artificial illumination. They looked a little like old Norse long-houses, long and low, mainly consisting of roof, which when they were put in place would be perfect for the solar arrays to be installed on.

Data from them scrolled across the data-slate he had attached to his left wrist; oxygen levels stable, CO2 stable and safely below dangerous levels, air pressure at 1 atmospheric pressure, gravity at Earth standard…they'd done a puncture test and the inner emergency airlocks had performed as expected. They were going to test the emergency CO2 scrubbers in a bit.

So far, so good.

Above him, or should that be to one side, the God-Emperor smiled to himself as he lazily span, he could see the tech-team busily putting the new suits through their paces, putting together a hard-drive, their chatter in his ear. Maybe he could liven this up a bit, and with a thought a cheap looking football appeared in his hands.

"Guys," he said, "I was thinking, maybe we could do some further tests, for the moisture recycling system," he twisted the ball speculatively.

The radio hissed and clicked. "We're nearly done here…so what are we playing? Football?"

Another hiss and click, one of the ladies from engineering he thought, "What about volley ball, we'll need to modify the rules but…"

"That could work," the God-Emperor grinned, letting the ball spin lazily in front of him.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

He had to admit, even though he really wasn't a connoisseur of these things, the view was beautiful. But he would much prefer to appreciate it somewhere indoors, preferably with heating. Snape hunched down further into his Dad's old donkey jacket he'd reluctantly dragged out of storage just for this occasion.

How kind of the Headmaster to volunteer his time and energy to Carrow and one of his bloody little missions, which was why he was currently stuck in the back end of nowhere busily freezing his anatomy off, in the middle of the Cornish countryside.

Behind him Carrow shifted impatiently as finally Emeline Vance heaved into view wheezing like the Hogwarts express, aided by Annie and Caroline, her sensible travelling robes now liberally sprinkled with bits of dead bracken and snow.

"Now we are all here," Carrow rumbled looking faintly irritated, "the target of our mission is over here." He led the way further into what Snape saw now was a sort of gully cut roughly into the hillside itself, but of some age as it was now overgrown with small trees and bushes.

At the very end, hidden by scrubby bare bushes, was an irregular and dark hole leading into the hill itself, except there was a very obvious problem here. Snape opened his mouth to point this out to the giant man who loomed over them in all his armoured glory.

"I'm afraid I will not be able to accompany you," Carrow looked almost embarrassed, "as I will not fit, and initial explorations show that it doesn't get much more capacious than this."

Snape closed his mouth with a clack, hurriedly biting the inside of his mouth in an attempt not to laugh at the image of Carrow trying to fit down that small hole.

"Ladies," he addressed the vampires, "you have an indication of the location as best we can manage, and you are supplied…"

The vampire ladies patted the tanks of petrol slung over their shoulders.

"You know what to do…I wish to go with you, but…" his shoulders slumped with regret.

"Shrinking charm," Snape muttered. Carrow's lips twitched.

"What…wait," Vance finally caught up with what was happening, "we have to go in there?"

Rolling his eyes, Snape shuffled reluctantly forward. "I'll go first," he muttered as he crouched down before the opening, the glowing tip of his wand dimly illuminating the tunnel beyond. It slanted gently down, but at an angle that forced him to sidle through sideways, one hand on the rocky wall to keep himself up.

The floor continued to slope away until it fell away and he found himself inching along on his bottom to keep from falling, small loose stones tumbling past him with a soft patter as the others followed him down. Above his head, the passage ceiling sloped away into the shadows. Every so often a piece of wood had been inserted, wedged between the walls of the passage. It did not inspire confidence.

"Do we actually know where we are going?" he asked as Annie nearly collided with his back, the petrol can sloshing menacingly.

"Sort of…we did a couple of explorations last week," she said, her voice muffled by the skull mask of her climate suit, "we didn't want to get too close though, in case we alerted anything…we need to get a lot lower than this, and at the rate we're going…" she shot what he assumed was a glare over her shoulder to where Vance was practically sobbing as she clawed her way down the slope.

Oh, what a joyous afternoon this was turning out to be. Snape glared at one of the numerous gaping holes that littered the sorry excuse for a floor of the sloping corridor/chasm. Picking up a pebble he tossed it in, waiting, but the sound of it hitting the bottom must have been swallowed up by the rattling clatter of Vance finally making the bottom of the rubble slope, or so he hoped. How deep was this old mine?

Deep enough, his question was soon answered by what seemed like an eternity of scrambling, clambering and climbing further down into the very earth itself as he attempted not to think about what would happen if it all collapsed in on them.

"This is awful," Vance complained for what seemed like the hundredth time, "my walking boots are going to be ruined."

Snape ground his teeth as he carefully skirted a completely flooded shaft that dropped away into the shadows, the water icy cold and clear as glass, the light from his wand briefly illuminating wooden props spanning the narrow space here and there, the rotten remains of a ladder with most of its rungs missing….would any one notice if he shoved Vance in?

There was a squeak and a splash and conciliatory muttering from an increasingly annoyed sounding Caroline. Maybe she wouldn't need a push.

"It's this way," Annie said as she cautiously ducked down to peer into a low opening half-submerged in the water. "The air feels a bit…funny, so we didn't go much beyond this point…didn't want to set anything off."

Snape followed, hunching down into the icy water trying to keep his wand from the wet. As soon as he got back to Hogwarts he was going to indulge himself and soak in a nice hot bath. His movements stirred up sediments in the passage, rocks and pebbles shifting under his feet as he half crawled, half staggered along, desperately trying to keep his head and wand above the steadily rising water level. Maybe they'd just made a horrible regrettable mistake that was going to result in Annie and Caroline having to drag two water-logged corpses out of this miserable place.

Abruptly the water ended, held back by a line of runes that circled the passage. Beyond the tunnel carried on, blissfully dry as it slope downwards, a tidemark on the wall showing the point where it had once been completely flooded.

"What…" he began, shuddering to a halt as his arm began to throb, and aching pain that lanced up his arm from what that cursed mark used to be, the air almost feeling dirty, clinging and staining to anything that moved.

"All right?" Annie asked, her body language concerned, but all he could do was nod through gritted teeth. Vance arrived then with an enormous spluttering splash, Caroline appearing after her.

"The sooner we're done here the better," Annie said nodding her head meaningfully towards him. Caroline's head snapped round to him, her stare penetrating even through the skull-mask of her suit, she and Annie leaning towards one another as some sort of silent communication occurred. A vampire thing maybe, Snape thought his mind mussed by the pain shooting up his arm. If it was about his personal well-being and possible liability then he could do without it too.

They carried on, Annie in the lead now, scrambling over piles of rubble that half-blocked the passage at regular intervals. They seemed to have fallen from vertical shafts that led to who knew where, some still having wooden chute like constructions at their openings, all of them choked with so much rubble and pieces of rotting wood.

The murky gloom of the air increased as they made their way slowly forward, a sense of impending doom pressing down on him as the light from his wand flickered fitfully, grey and watery.

The passage abruptly splintered, many side openings appearing. Some were obviously dead-ends, others choked with rubble, another went a few feet before dropping into a cavernous shaft full of black oily looking water.

"It's this one," Snape croaked, rocking on his heels at the sheer blast of wrongness that breathed out of the passage in question.

"Really?" Vance said. "How can you tell?"

Snape stared at her in disbelief. The horror breathing out of that tunnel was as plain as the nose on his face, the dark shadows leaking out, dull and flat but malicious all the same.

"I think this is where we switch to the torches completely," Caroline pulled out a small object, flicking a switch. The torch produced a beam of bright yellow light that pierced the gloom illuminating the sediments on the floor and the multitudes of score-lines in the passage walls where the miners' pick-axes had chipped away at the rocks.

The passage they now entered seemed even more disturbing in the stark illumination, the shadows seemingly crawling along the walls after them, rustling and whispering as they passed.

There were even more runes on the walls now, another warding ring hacked into the stone, and then a chamber, a perfect circle, obviously magically created.

He collided with Annie's arm, like walking into a steel bar, right across his solar plexus. Wheezing, he caught a glance of the floor and barely stopped himself from leaping back, from falling away from the horror.

The oily slick of something that coated the floor brushed up almost to the doorway, its surface shimmering faintly in the brash light of the torch. In places he could just glimpse the remains of a ritual circle hacked into the stone, and in the centre…he squinted into the gloom, his arm throbbing in synchrony with his heart beat. There was a strange lump in the middle of the circle, oddly shaped like a deformed potato, half melted into the floor.

Caroline flashed the torch over it and he recoiled. It was a skeleton…or the upper half of a skeleton, blackened, covered in the oily slick which shifted, dripped and slithered its way over the bones of this lost forgotten victim of something truly inhuman.

"I think we've found it," Annie muttered as she pulled the petrol can off her back.

"You think," Snape rasped, but Annie just sniggered at him.

To Snape's utter embarrassment he found himself unable to help as Caroline sidled past with her can of petrol joining her sister-in-arms to cautiously circle the room spreading the noxious liquid as they avoided stepping in the circle as best they could. And all he could do was lean against the wall clutching his arm. Nothing could make him take one step further forward, not the Headmaster, or Carrow, or even his bloody bastard father in full drunken swing could make him take one step further forward.

Caroline dragged him with her as she left, leaving the smaller vampire to set the fire. There was a hissing splutter, a crackling whistle and sudden swearing.

"Bloody run," Annie screamed as she charged towards them. Just past her Snape caught a glimpse of the skeleton illuminated now by the orange glow of the fire scrabbling at the floor as it tried to drag itself forward, its eyes glowing with a malevolent light as it hissed in rage.

Desperate now, they scrambled back down the passage towards the water, but here they encountered the next problem as the water which had previously been held back came surging towards them in a black freezing tide.

Well wasn't this turning into a bloody barrel of bloody laughs, Snape thought to himself as he desperately clawed forward through the passage trying not to let the water sweep him back to that thing, or drown for that matter, and the vampires very much had their hands full trying to stop Vance panicking or getting stuck, so he was on his bloody own. Wasn't life bloody fun?

"Where are we?" Caroline's voice had an edge of panic to it.

Heaving himself to his feet, Snape looked around at the unfamiliar crevasse they had found themselves in. Above in the gloom he could see the remains of wooden props and platforms wedged between the rock faces, even vague hints of openings into other levels in the mine. All they could do was go forward, scrambling up and down the rough floor of this gash in the rock and hope they found something soon.

He shivered in the cool air, hopefully very soon; he was soaked to the skin and covered in mud, and somewhere he'd lost the knitted cap he'd been hoping would keep his ears warm. Vance wasn't much better, visibly shivering, the skirts of her travel robes torn and filthy.

The floor sloped gradually upwards, leaving them desperately scrambling up a steep rubble slope until it narrowed down into another low passage strewn with broken ladders and lengths of rotting wood, the dark openings of other passage ways looming in the dark.

"Why is there water?" Vance asked.

Snape looked down to see dark oily water beginning to swirl around his feet. Swearing, he pushed forward. "Which one, Annie?" Caroline asked, obviously beginning to panic now.

"I don't know…we never came in here before!" Annie frantically looked around the restricted space. "This one…I can feel a bit of breeze."

Snape followed her, desperate to get away from the water as quickly as he could, unable to shake the nagging feeling that they were being followed. This new tunnel meandered and seemed to be even more neglected, with piles of debris from rock-falls everywhere. More tunnel openings.

Annie began to head down one but stopped, turning back. "No, it's choked with back fill or something," she snapped as she sprinted for the next one, but in the cramped confines of the mine Snape beat her to it. Shuffling forward in the gloom, he paused; over the sounds of the footsteps of the others, and Vance's panicked wheezing, he could hear tapping, like metal striking stone.

He squinted into the gloom his unease building. There it came again, a distant tapping.

"Why have you stopped?" Annie demanded by his shoulder trying to push him forward, but he shushed her. In the distance, just near a bend in the passage, something with lamp-like eyes turned to look at him before going back to tapping away at the rocks.

Turning, he frantically shoved the vampire back with him, ignoring her protests. "Not that way," he growled, desperately looking round aware of the menace building in the air. The feeling of moving air on his face caught him and he dived towards it into a narrow gap.

Frantically clawing his way over earth and rubble and pieces of broken wood, he suddenly found himself breaking out into fresh air, sliding, rolling down the hill a little way, loose pebbles sticking painfully into his knees.

He span on the spot just in time to witness Annie falling out of the rough opening into the scrubby undergrowth, with a great deal of swearing, and looking like she'd rolled in mud for fun, though he doubted his appearance was any better. Then Vance clawed her way out in a thrashing sodden mess, her fancy travel robes beyond saving.

"Thank Throne for that…" Caroline said as she began to emerge, but to Snape's horror, she was suddenly jerked back into the hill. Without thinking, he lunged forward, grabbing her arm before she could disappear, Annie, and even to his surprise Vance, joining him in the desperate tug of war with something…

"It's got my leg," Caroline said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice, "I can't…" she jerked back further pulling them with her, "just let go…"

"No," he and Annie shouted. "Carrow" he bellowed hoping the giant bastard heard, and then all he could do was do his best not to let go, not to get pulled back inside the hill at the mercies of whatever the hell it was that they had disturbed.

Carrow arrived in an explosion of debris, a giant hand reaching past him to grab Caroline, bodily heaving her from the passage and tossing her down the slope, leaving them all rolling afterwards. Hauling himself up from the gorse bush he'd landed in, he turned just in time to see Carrow facing down with something, his sword draw the blade surrounded by a nimbus of blue light as he struck at it, blue fire and lightening dancing around as he fought the shadow thing from the mine.

There was a massive thump of sound and a bellow of triumph from Carrow as part of the hillside caved in with a massive rumble.

Picking himself up, Snape looked around to find the vampires slowly making their way towards him, their all-encompassing suits streaked with mud. Vance was…he looked round for her…Vance was trembling from head to foot, looking as bad as he felt, her wand drawn as she attempted to clean herself up a bit.

"It's a lost cause," he said.

"You'd have more luck setting them on fire," Annie helpfully chimed in.

Vance turned and glared at them. "I'm never doing this again," she shouted, on the verge of tears, "you're all mad!" She glared at Snape before turning on the spot and apparating away with a sharp crack.

"How rude," Caroline said.

oOo

The next time the Headmaster tried his sweet-old-man act, he was going to tell him to stuff it where the sun didn't shine. Snape glared over his shoulder at the bloody giant bastard, the instigator of this entire ordeal. Not that Carrow either noticed or cared.

When he finally got into his quarters, he was going to have the longest shower of his life in an attempt to get rid of all this bloody mud, which had got into places mud had no business being in. And his bloody boots were busily chafing his feet raw, he was certain he'd got blisters the size of galleons on his heels, at least. And then…then he was going to sleep…sleep like the dead.

He was dragging himself up the steps to the main doors, wincing with each one when there was a small commotion behind him. Shuffling awkwardly into the shadows, he was annoyed though unsurprised to find a small group the Defence Club crazies trying to sneak back into the Castle.

They were just as covered in mud as he was himself, though with the added look of having run through several bushes, twigs and leaves plastered all over, sticking up from their helmets.

He was just about to reward them all detentions when Carrow struck again.

"…no acromantula either," one of the brats was whining, Granger he thought.

"We checked all the usual places the Dire Wolves go in spring, and nothing…" Goyle maybe…

"There are always the…equine people," Carrow rumbled.

Snape's mind scrambled to catch up…equine people… _the Centaurs_?

He stared in horror. Was the man bloody mad?

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

That could have gone better, Faulks sighed to himself as he gathered his ever growing collection of files and folders, the members of the Wizengamot filling the chambers with their chatter as they drifted towards the doors. Amazing how engaged they were when no one was asking them to discuss the merits of trade standards for flobberworm slime.

But on the other hand, the Educational Reform Bill was well in its way to the last vote, while his attempts at getting the DMLE officially involved in Godric's Hollow was at last progressing. Madam Bones had managed to squeeze a promise of purpose built training facilities out of him. As long as she didn't mind something that had popped out of Carrow's twisted mind she was welcome to them.

Oh…looked like the Minister had left behind his copy of the session's itinerary...and half a bottle of fire-whisky. A quick glance around showed the annoying man had already made his escape, leaving behind the faintest hint of stale whisky fug…

"Errm…"

He turned to find Sirius Black staring at him nervously, shifting from foot to foot. "Can I assist you, Mr Black?"

The older man gave him a panicked smile, his expression abruptly turning serious as he sidled closer. "The ermm…thingies about the special auror service in Godric's Hollow…"

Faulks raised an eyebrow wondering where this was going.

"I err…you've got my support," Black licked his lips nervously, glancing around as if worried he would be overheard, "I err…had an err… _accident_ after Carrow's little party and um…drunk something that I maybe shouldn't have and err…well, I'm still having to take potions to correct the damage, and err…yeah."

Faulks stared at him face frozen. Was this going to be as awful as he feared?

"So, err…yeah," Black stared at him as if he might attack at any moment.

Faulks blinked at him. "Thank you, Mr Black, I appreciate your support…I hope your health hasn't suffered unduly?"

Black gave a nervous laugh. "Still taking some daily potions." He glanced around, before leaning forward conspiratorially. "Snape fixed it so I wasn't female anymore, but I'm still having rainbow coloured poo." He shrugged. "Something to do with my liver I think. He tried explaining it to me, but it sounded like he'd been hit by a gabbling hex."

Right. Faulks tried to look concerned, even as he bit back guilty laughter. He couldn't help but feel a little responsible for Black's predicament.

"I'm going to be fine…I think," Black gave him a nervous grin, "you've got my support anyway." He gave Faulks a brief pat on the arm and before he could say anything, Black had sprinted away into the thinning crowd of the Wizengamot.

"Bloody Throne," Faulks muttered to himself. He felt like he was fighting a forest fire with a bucket of water and a broom. Bloody Carrow.

oOo

He knew something was wrong the moment he stepped out of the lift ( _Lair of the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic._ When had that changed?) It was too quiet. Normally there'd be someone raiding the coffee machine, the faint sound of keyboards and people, many people working away at the ghostly bureaucratic activities that only Carrow seemed to be able to generate.

Dumping his folders on the floor by the lift, Timothy pulled out his Browning and wand. Edging forward, he made his way towards the main offices, hugging the shadows as much as he could.

The corridors were eerily quiet; every so often he would spot a sign of hurried evacuation. Discarded papers, a pair of glasses lying forlornly on the floor, a splash mark of spell fire in the wall…something crumpled and sad lying near the wall. Heart in his mouth, Timothy cautiously approached the fallen figure, expecting a trap at any moment.

A gentle prod with a foot elicited no reaction. He slowly turned the body over to reveal a pool of blood and gore, mainly intestines from the look of it…cheap robes, a bit threadbare…definitely not a member of staff…a hard face, broken nose, terrible teeth, looked like some tough from the pits of Knockturn's slums. What on earth was he doing here?

Worry clawing at his throat, he continued on his way.

As he turned the corner, he found the way barred. Desks had been carefully positioned across the passage, and even now were manned by a number of the staff, a blood-spattered and very angry looking witch, and one of the guys from IT looking far too comfortable with a Cadia IV in hands. The wizard hunched between them looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Mr Faulks, Sir," the wizard gasped in relief moving forward. The IT guy blocked him.

"Don't be stupid" he growled. "It could be a glamour, you idiot". The wizard slumped forward, quite dejected.

"We shot the last sucker who tried us", the IT guy grinned, obviously enjoying himself far too much.

Huddled near the barricade lay the body of another intruder, this one scrawny and sharp featured, with grubby blonde hair, another nameless hopeless thing.

"Hmm." Timothy considered the matter before reciting several of Carrow's favourite prayers.

"Okay, okay", the IT guy rolled his eyes, "you must be nuts memorising that stuff."

Huffing to himself, Timothy shrugged off his Wizengamot robes, tossing them over the barricade. "What's the situation," he demanded, "and where's Ms Slyte?"

"Erm, she's…"

There was a flurry of noise and gesticulating, while the wizard actually had the presence of mind to pull out a notepad to make a paper airplane memo. Slyte appeared soon after at a run, her face hard and grim, her eau-de-nil twin-set and pearls looking slightly incongruous.

"Oh thank goodness," she said as she carefully examined him over the barrier, "you're all right."

"What's the situation?" Timothy demanded.

"Well…when the attack began security were of course alerted, and then we went into lock down," Slyte went into professional mode, "we've been evacuating people into the Underground, a few at a time of course, the injured first…other than that, we've been doing our best to maintain an air of normalcy with the rest of the Ministry. No need to draw too much attention to ourselves…"

"Quite," Timothy grimaced at the thought of the DMLE getting involved. A thought struck him, "Percy, he's with you isn't he"

Slyte exchanged grim looks with the others. "He was near the new archival deposit when this all broke out…"

Timothy's heart skipped a bit. Percy would be the first to admit he wasn't a fighter, and now he was mixed up in this mess, whatever it was…

"I'm going to find him," he announced pulling his browning out, checking it carefully.

"You're not going to join us?" the blood-spattered witch asked though she already seemed to know what his answer was going to be.

"No…"

"Timothy," Slyte sighed.

"There are likely more of them in here with us..and I need to find Percy," Timothy growled, looking back the way he'd come.

Ignoring them he slid back down the passage, shouts echoing behind him for him to come back. At least these intruders wouldn't be able to escape easily, but due to the warren like nature of Carrow's office they could be almost anywhere. Oh great, and he was on his own, because Wulfric had been pulled away by his handlers for the day. Wonderful.

The staff toilets proved empty, as did the secondary archive, and the press liaison office. The staff of the security room with all its CCTV monitors had barricaded their door and "weren't coming out even for Jaffa cakes", but very kindly suggested he go and look near the third archive depository and the new non-magical liaison office. "Some of the lads have cornered someone near there …."

"Percy…Mr Weasley…red hair?" he asked.

There was some urgent whispering. "No, sorry…we'll keep our eyes out though."

"Right," Timothy rubbed under his eye-patch feeling as if the world, or maybe just Carrow, was weighing down on his shoulders.

"Need any medical assistance?" he asked, eyeing the open corridor warily.

"Er, we're okay for the moment", the voice shouted through the door to him. "Tony's got some first-aid training, so he's dealing with it for the moment. Just be warned, at least one of them's got a knife."

"Oh bloody brilliant," Timothy grimaced to himself, more and more alarmed. Intruders who'd deliberately made their way to Carrow's office, members of staff attacked, injuries, dead bodies to dispose of and explain…bereaved families to be informed. Guess who was going be given that fraught and grim task.

"Damn, damn, damn", he muttered as he sidled down the hallway towards the offices for the shadow departments. The third archival depository was behind, just near the new typing pool.

The sound of distant gun-fire caused him to pause, before ducking and peering quickly around the corner. It looked clear, so he edged out, Browning at the ready ….more shots, definitely a Cadia IV. He was going to have to learn about that …shouts …something dropping …foot-steps …a ragged figure burst out from the entrance to the typing pool storming towards him, eyes wild, wand slashing down.

The Browning jolted in his hands, two cracks of sound as he fired on instinct, the man jerking, an angry and surprised look on his face as he slumped to the floor, red spreading across the grubby white t-shirt he wore under his equally disgusting robes.

Another one down, who knew how many to go; he stepped over the dead man lying in its rapidly spreading pool of blood. Maintenance were going to be severely underwhelmed when they saw the state of the carpets.

Round another corner, still clear, but there were doors to the _Department for_ _Magical Farming and Rural Affairs_ … _Shadow Department for Sports and Entertainment_ …

They appeared to be empty, desks littered with abandoned paperwork, a supply cupboard, chairs slightly askew, a cold cup of coffee and an abandoned sandwich missing a single bite, sitting on is wrapper. Looked like chicken, cranberry sauce and watercress. Fancy.

He hadn't heard any more gunfire, no more sounds of conflict, in fact it was deathly quiet, which was in its way far more unnerving. Did he go back to the corridor, it was only the typing pool beyond and Security were already there, no doubt searching the place from top to bottom …or he could …

The sound of someone trying to walk quietly…he crept towards the corner his gun held ready…

Only to find Percy standing there holding a Cadia up ready to fire. A wave of relief passed over him only to be replaced with concern as he took in the state of the younger man's robes, the drying blood on his chin, his rapidly swelling eye.

"Are you all right?" Timothy asked.

Percy nodded swallowing nervously, his freckles standing out starkly his face was so pale. "Yeah. Bit bruised," he said, "nothing permanent I think…I…I think I killed one of them…" his face began to take on a distinctly green tinge. "I…I…"

"Deep breathes Mr Weasley, we just need to finish this," Timothy managed a tight smile, "and then we can go to pei…"

The supply cupboard behind him erupted with a scream, _"fuck you,"_ and he turned, but too slowly, a body colliding with his as he tried to twist and break his fall. They slammed together into the side of the desk, a jar of pain, but then an arm was around his throat as he twisted…

" _Gonna kill yoooouuu…fucking mud-bloood…"_

…trying to avoid the choke hold, elbow slamming into the assailant's ribs, once, twice, grubby fingers scrabbling at his face. He bit them hard, vaguely aware in the background that Percy was frantically trying to get a shot at the intruder.

A yell of pain, followed by even more swearing. He slammed his head back, barely registering the blow as he scrabbled and scrambled round – elbows, knees, slamming into ribs, stomach, in a mad tangle, pushing and shoving, slamming the butt of his Browning down on the man's neck hard as he got a full-face blast of the individual's complete lack of dental hygiene.

Scrambling into a better position, he did it again, the hands weakly scrabbling at his chest going still, dropping down

Frantically, Timothy scrambled up, chest heaving, as he held the Browning steady and aimed. Cautiously, he kicked the man's discarded wand behind him, just in case. No point finding out he wasn't unconscious the hard way. Behind him, a couple of frazzled security personnel burst in behind Percy who looked like he was rapidly going into shock.

"Sir," one of them called.

"I'm fine", Timothy said, "help him," he gestured towards Percy who was now gently swaying on his feet, "have you got handcuffs, something to tie this delightful individual up with?"

"Certainly, sir", the female security personnel said, stepping round him, grimacing at the grubby individual slumped on the floor. "I'm definitely getting some lice shampoo too," she muttered to herself as she got to work securing the man's ankles together firmly, before rolling him onto his front and immobilising his wrists.

Timothy watched as he got his breath back. The gaunt man was yet another bottom scraping from Knockturn, a drug addict too, considering the state of his teeth and the sickly pallor of his skin, the scabs covering his cheeks and round his mouth…but it was strange, there was just something oddly familiar about him.

He frowned as the security people laid the grubby man out on his side, yes definitely familiar, someone he went to Hogwarts with…Glossop…oh…Caspian Glossop, the arrogant bullying piece of…and now look at him…this had been personal, yes, but how on Earth had he and his little friends managed to get in the Ministry? Somebody must have helped them…

"Sir, we'll take him to lock-up now," the Security lady looked up at him expectantly.

He glared down at the remains of his childhood nemesis. "No, this one is _mine_."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

 _* wiki/Ecclesiarchy_Quotes, Warhammer 40,000 2_ _nd_ _edition rulebook, p70._


	7. Chapter 7

_Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k._

 _I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas._

* * *

Author's Note

Wow. Well this is a little embarrassing. I promised the 8th and it's now the 23rd.

I had a bit of a punch up with this chapter, but I really wanted to get it right so I didn't feel I could rush it. A particular scene was causing me huge troubles, just really not cooperating at all, but a couple of weeks ago I had a little bit of a break-through. "What I finish the chapter at this point instead," I thought and it all sort of twisted into place after that, and also a big chunk of this chapter, 3k or so, had actually ended up in chapter 8 instead. It's much better for it too.

This also means that I won't be posting anything on July 1st (instead I will be going to the dentist, yay!) instead I will post chapter 8 on August 1st.

Anyway, thank-you all for your continued support and patience…and enjoy :-)

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

"But why does the DMLE need this," Fudge whined, "you've been doing a perfectly good job with the training halls here," he slumped further into his seat as he gazed round the formal meeting of the Department Heads.

Timothy suppressed a snarl, his face an emotionless mask. Madam Bones wasn't quite so reticent glaring at the shrunken little man. "It may have been adequate in 1750 but the Training Halls here are no longer up to the task of training our recruits to modern standards and haven't been for a long time."

But the Minister was having none of it continuing on, "…but the DMLE's budget won't cover this…and the transport…"

"Weasley," Timothy leant back catching his secretary's eye as Fudge continued to ramble on, "budget plan, please."

Percy began rifling through his impressive collection of folders pulling out a wad of yellow and very muggle paper carefully stapled at the corner. To Tim's concern the younger man was still sporting dark shadows under his eyes, his face so pale his freckles stood out starkly.

To be honest for him the whole incident, despite how upsetting it had been, had barely rated as a Tuesday with Carrow around, but Percy had always been sheltered from all that.

"If you need to talk…" he murmured as Percy handed the budget plan over.

"I'm fine…I'm going to be fine," Percy hissed.

Mr Glossop from Trade and Commerce glared at them.

Percy leant in closer. "Just do the little bastard in," he whispered.

"…so out of the way in Godric's Hollow. Other than the Potter family memorial what else is there? Last time I visited it was sleepier than Hogsmede in the middle of summer," the Minister tittered to himself, his anxious laugh quickly dying in the stony silence.

Timothy slapped the budget plan down in front of Fudge causing the shrunken little man to jerk back in his chair, eyes wide and frightened. "No need to worry about the budget Minister," he gave the man a toothy smile, "we've sorted it all out, right down to the last knut."

"Exactly Minister," Madam Bones smirked, "Mr Carrow is paying for the building and its facilities and is also contributing half the running costs...in exchange for a permanent Auror presence in Godric's Hollow itself."

There was more spluttering and protests from the Minster but he'd already lost and everyone in the room knew it. How had such a weakling managed to get into such a powerful position? Timothy wondered as he glared at the annoying man the meeting grinding on around them. Oh there he was answering his own question, hadn't Lucius Malfoy had something to do with it, a whispered word here, carefully placed gold there…and hey presto! The elections results you always wanted.

The Minister shifted uncomfortably in his chair, eyes flitting constantly to the door. Ah yes, his lunch time pick-me-up, Timothy ground his teeth. What was it now…an entire bottle of elderflower wine from that hag on Crooked alley, which was more than likely fermented potato peelings if half the rumours were true. Apparently the whisky was getting a little too expensive even on the Minister's salary.

As the Minister for Sports and Games finally finished Fudge became increasingly restless practically hopping in his chair as the meeting wound down to its end around him. The moment people began standing and gathering their things he was up, and in a surprising turn of speed sprinting for the door.

"I'll get all this," Percy muttered by his ear, "go get him". With a jerk of a nod Timothy strode for the door, Wulfric peeling out of the shadows and joining him.

oOo

Shockingly Fudge actually managed to get as far as the lifts despite his short legs. Getting to the lattice screen door just as it was about to close, Timothy wrenched it to one side, sliding into the lift beside the Minister, Wulfric close behind him. Fudge backed into the corner, eyeing them warily as Wulfric mashed the button for the Entrance Hall, the werewolf's smile never faltering for a moment.

"Minister," Timothy smiled down at the smaller man, his scar pulling it into something that had Fudge pale-faced and sweating, "I've been wanting to talk to you alone…I have something I need to show you."

Wondering if Fudge would fall for it, Timothy watched the Minister who had now backed into the corner, holding his ridiculous lime green bowler hat in front of him as if he could use it as a shield, his eyes flicking from Timothy to Wulfric who was standing in front of the lift doors in his best "relaxed" stance, amber eyes cool and unfriendly.

"Show me?" the Minister squeaked.

"Yes, show you," Timothy smiled doing his best to imitate Carrow at his worst. Apparently it worked, as Fudge went a funny putty colour, his shoulder blades practically trying to dig their way out of the lift.

" _Main Entrance Hall to the Ministry of Magic,"_ the female voice of the lift declared, in far too cheerful a tone.

As the lattice screen opened, Fudge attempted to bolt but Timothy grabbed him, looping his arm firmly through his, pinning the Minister to his side as he marched them through the hall towards the main apparition point. Nobody gave them so much as a second glance as he whisked them away to the Lodge.

oOo

"What are you doing?" Fudge squawked as they went past the kitchens, through the vampires' den. Seeing an increasing reluctance to go on, Faulks grabbed his arm and practically dragged him into the new tunnel system, past the training halls and the Chapel to the little underground railway system. Giving the Minister a shove, he climbed in beside him, Wulfric sitting behind them, breathing down Fudge's neck as he set the conveyance in motion.

As they wound through the tunnels, Faulks's nerves finally caught up with him. Would everything be in place? Would it have the desired effects? Would it make the annoying little man worse? He crushed that train of thought as they barrelled through a cavernous hall that stretched into the distance, huge stone pillars holding up a distant ceiling. Someone had actually managed to get a couple of porta-cabins down there and had set them up near the railway, light streaming from the upper office windows…

No, he needed to keep on track, stay focused on the mission.

Grim faced, he dragged Fudge off the train into the underground network of Aquila R&D labs, past Jon's lair and into the area that originally had been set aside for Carrow's personal use. Part of it had since become the Bio-Mechanical development teams' lair. The rumours that flew around about them were…Faulks didn't really know what to think, but if he woke up to find he'd acquired a few extra limbs he knew exactly who he was going to blame.

Opening a grey fire door, Faulks shoved a still protesting Fudge into the lab beyond, into the chilly fug of formaldehyde and chemicals and something dead, quickly following as Wulfric took up guard outside.

Only to be brought up short by one of the technicians who had apparently decided the best way to show off her new bionic legs to her appreciative colleagues was to do a little jig, the mechanism in the calves and ankles shifting and spinning behind their protective casing as she whirled round…

"Oh…er…Mr Faulks," the technician smiled, obviously flustered, brushing down her skirt, "we're all ready for you."

"Ready for what?" Fudge asked.

But nobody took any notice of him as the technician skittered over to a shrouded lumpen object surrounded by strange machines and banks of instruments her metallic feet clattering on the tiled floor. She pulled aside the shroud, revealing what was once Caspian Glossop, naked as the day he was born, slumped unseeing in a large dentist style chair, straps pinning him in place as he stared unseeing into the distance, drool running down his chin.

Beside him, Fudge tensed. "Wha…what is the meaning of this?" the small man snapped, obviously trying to pull himself together.

"You know _exactly_ what this is about, Minister Fudge," Faulks hissed, bending down until he was almost nose to nose with the shorter man as the technicians began preparing Glossop's body.

"I don't…I don't know what you're talking about," Fudge stuttered, trying to back away, eyes flicking from side to side as he attempted to watch the technicians as they shaved Glossop's scalp _and_ keep Faulks in his line of sight at the same time.

"Oh, I think you do," Faulks slowly smiled.

Already pale and sweating, Fudge's face went grey.

"I think you know exactly what this is about. After all you hired him to kill me," Faulks snarled.

Fudge's shaking worsened. "You…you can't prove anything."

"I don't need to," Faulks growled, "I have all the proof I need, a signed confession and the memories of you meeting Glossop in the _Happy Hag's Button_ , you offering him money in return for roughing me up, your subsequent meeting at a rendezvous in the alley, the actual exchange of money, the suggestion…or more a hint that my death could only be a _highly desirable accident_ …am I ringing any bells yet?"

Fudge was shaking like a leaf, the loose skin that hung off his chin shivering, eyes wide and horrified his breath shallow and quick.

The sound of a circular saw drew the little man's attention back to where Glossop was sitting. Another technician, a short stocky man with thinning hair and a round face had donned a full face shield, a flip-up plastic thing, while he delicately cut round the top of Glossop's skull, his decidedly non-magical tool going straight through the bone with a grizzly grinding sound.

The cutting complete, the woman with the bionic legs delicately flipped the top of the skull up and off, setting it to one side in a clinical white tray for later. Glossop sat unmoving in the chair, his brain exposed as the technicians prepared a monstrous device that loomed over him, brass arms and tentacles hanging down tipped with hypodermic needles, surgical blades, and strange rune encrusted probes.

"What are they doing?" Fudge whispered, eyes wide with horror, as the arms and tentacles began to shift and move, lowering towards Glossop's exposed brain tissue, and plunging into the brain matter.

"They're transforming him into a sort of flesh puppet," Faulks said, ignoring Fudge's look of uncomprehending horror. "I'm sure you've seen them about. They're something of a speciality of Mr Carrow's."

"Test one…initiating," a third technician, dark complexioned with serious looking glasses, announced.

Glossop's body began to twitch and spasm, his head jerking and shaking as his limbs lolled and spasmed painfully. "That appears to all be in order," the short and stocky technician nodded decisively as he watched another screen, "the general nervous system seems to be in reasonable condition…though there is some damage to his toes…"

"No matter, they're coming off anyway," Bionic legs technician pointed out. "Next test?"

"Of course…test two…initiating," dark, glasses wearing technician said. Glossop's mouth clumsily worked, eyes suddenly snapping open, milky eyes rolling back into his head…

"AaaaaYYyyyyy…"

Fudge attempted to shuffle backwards towards the doors…

"eeeEEEEEeeeeEEE…"

Sensing the escape bid, Faulks whirled, managing to grab the minister by the scruff of the neck…

"IIIIiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIiiiiiiiiyyyyeeeee…"

…wrestling Fudge back round. The Minister was surprisingly strong…and desperate, for his size…

"oooOOOOOooooohhhhh,"

… " _no no no no_ ," Fudge shrieked as Faulks pulled him closer.

"YYyyyyyYYYyooooohhHHHHhhhhh."

"Now listen to me," Faulks snarled not letting go of the Minister's arm for a moment, "you thought you could dispose of me through some ludicrous cheap plot, but you forget your place. You're just a puppet for Mr Carrow, nothing else!"

Fudge crumpled in defeat, shaking like a leaf, big fat tears beginning to leak down his cheeks.

But Faulks wasn't finished. "For now, Mr Carrow wishes to leave you _untouched_ , but I swear on my magic, _if_ you pull off a stunt even remotely like this ever again, it will be _you_ sitting in that chair, _this_ will be your fate," he heaved a breath, his anger threatening to bubble over, ignoring the messy sobbing of the Minister, "now _watch_."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The forward ramp of the shuttle craft lowered with an eerie silence that only a near hard vacuum could produce revealing an alien landscape. Stark silvery grey, the boulder strewn plain stretched to the rim of the crater where they had landed, the mountains in the distance that marked its rim reaching for the velvet black of the sky, a deep inky void filled with stars. So many stars, clear and unblinking and the Milky-way marching across the void…

"Are you going to step out?" an excited voice asked over his helmet radio, "some of us want to explore you know."

Glancing over his shoulder the God-Emperor found Arithmancer Strange watching him closely, doing her best to hide her nervous energy.

"I err…" he paused, "maybe you should go first, you did organise this mission after all."

"But we wouldn't be here if you hadn't insisted," she stepped slowly down the ramp towards him, her movements odd in the low gravity.

"Together then," he said. She nodded, the gesture muted by the pressure suit but he could sense her happiness at the suggestion, and so together they stepped off the end of the ramp.

He could feel the dirt crunch beneath his boots as he walked a short way from the shuttle craft, drinking in the desolate landscape, the stark sunlight, the pitch black shadows.

He crouched down, picking up a pebble, running the fine dust through his fingers. The silence was uncanny, he could hear his own breathing and the faint gurgling of the water recycling system of his suit, the excited radio chatter of the rest of the team as they explored. Other than that…nothing.

There was something over there in the distance, he shielded his gaze from the stark sunlight a moment. Ah, the central spire of the crater…one day that would host part of a warding system that would shield this entire crater protecting it from meteor strikes and the like. He knew it with an absolute certainty…

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Never heard of this place before," Wulfric gave the brief a dubious look, "are you sure about this?"

"As sure as I can be," Timothy said as he gave his equipment a last once over, "it's not unheard of for muggleborns to take over an unused building in the non-magical world and re-task it to their purposes. They're all over the place, little enclaves, too small for the Ministry to take anything but the remotest interest in. This one's in Birmingham," he said as he gave his Browning one last check over before holstering it.

"Percy went and checked it out for me," he continued, "it looks like a semi-derelict Victorian warehouse from the outside, but inside, they've apparently divided it up into lots. People have got businesses going. They've even got flats and stuff."

Wulfric grimaced. "Oh, that's not going to be good, lots of witnesses and disruption…"

Timothy shrugged as he surveyed the rest of the team, who looked as if they would have appreciated a few more hours sleep, but were making the best of it. It even appeared as if Chuddy was managing to sneak in a few extra winks while standing up, the new girl looking nervous as to what was going on.

"It's just a chance we're going to have to take. Fortunately, our target has a separate ground-floor entrance, and this early in the morning…it's as good as we're going to get, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't exercise as much caution as possible."

"So why this one, again?" Wulfric asked, obviously unhappy about being up at three in the morning.

"We ruled out or eliminated the other suppliers of that lab. All we're going to do is sneak in, copy all their paper work and order records and stuff and sneak back out," Timothy scowled as he rooted around in the pocket of his great-coat. "Honestly, Wulfric, if you want to go back to bed, just go."

Wulfric reared back as if he'd been slapped, much to the amusement of the others. "Let you go into an unknown situation without me? Hell, _no_. You'd probably come back missing an arm or leg or something."

Pulling out the enchanted paper plate, Timothy refused to dignify Wulfric's ridiculous fussing with an answer. "Grab hold," he snapped, proffering the object to the team.

"A port-key first thing in the morning. Yay," Athena muttered as she touched the thing.

oOo

Carrow barred his teeth in anticipation. Before the local star Sol had even made it above the horizon he was going to pay this Fox a little visit. The data from the office raid had flagged he/she/it up as a buyer and seller, a conveyer of dubious artifacts, and possibly information too if this one was anything like the "people of business" he remembered from before.

Like a tree when it was shaken, it was always interesting what would fall out and he had particularly good feelings about this tree. He couldn't wait to uproot it.

"Let us depart," he said holding out the port-key he'd had made for this mission. The four vampires who had volunteered for this mission all reached for the loop of rope.

Activated, the port-key whisked them away with a jerk and spinning disorientation, dumping them rather forcefully into an alley. Knee servos protesting Carrow quickly caught his balance even as the vampires stumbled.

The alley was rather dark and still paved in its original blue bricks, rundown Victorian industrial buildings hemming them in on both sides.

Across a narrow road was their destination. The warehouse was much as his initial scouting had suggested. Brick built and sturdy, it wouldn't have looked that out of place on many of the worlds he'd visited, though it appeared to be derelict, or pretending to be at least considering the lit windows. Beyond it lay a stretch of barren open land, decaying tarmac and concrete littered with elders, buddleias forcing their way up through cracks. Behind them was a canal, a shadowy ribbon in the night.

Around them the orange lights of a city lit up the sky with an incandescent glow, the hum of traffic clearly audible despite the lateness of the hour.

Now to deal with the wards on this place. Arm stretched out in front of him he inched slowly forward until there was a fizz of energy, blue sparks flying off his fingertips and dancing up the back of his gauntlet.

Fascinating. If he turned his head slightly the warehouse looked dark and abandoned, looming over them, a derelict shell, but if he turned his head slightly the other way…the damp stains and ferns lining the drainpipes vanished, some of the windows showing glimmers of light behind closed curtains.

"Ingenious," he smirked, but not infallible.

Delicately he teased the glimmering matrix of the ward apart allowing Annie and Caroline to hop through closely followed by Methuselah, Edwin hesitating for a moment before leaping through. As Carrow let the ward flex back into place it wobbled a moment before settling back into place.

Predictably the entrance to this place was depressingly small, he glared at the door ignoring Annie's quiet cough of laughter.

oOo

The canal glittered orange before them as they landed on a brick paved tow-path lined with buddleias and barren looking elder bushes. Beyond stretched the lights of the city, a faint hum of traffic audible, even this early in the morning.

Did the non-magical world ever sleep? Don't be silly, Timothy reprimanded himself, it was probably all delivery lorries, people on early shifts, and things like that at this time of night.

The warehouse itself did look semi-derelict, though some of the windows appeared to be lit up. Something odd was going on here; Timothy moved his head slowly back and forth as he squinted up at the looming building. One second the windows were broken, boarded up, or empty gaping holes, and now they were whole, some showing signs of life.

"Boss, you all right?" Chuddy muttered in concern from where he squatted next to a sizeable buddleia.

"Yes…yes, of course. What do you see?" Timothy said quietly. _"What do you see?"_

Chuddy was silent for a moment. "Great big ruddy old warehouse, with some of the windows boarded up. Doesn't look like anyone's home…but if magic's involved, that don't mean much."

"Someone's got an illuminated star in their window," New Girl said. The others stared at her. She shrugged smiling awkwardly

Huh, one heck of a muggle repelling ward; Timothy looked up at the building with renewed appreciation. Seemed it was mixed with a more general warding scheme too, which was kind of suspicious. Were people trying to hide illegal activities, or did they just hate the Ministry and the Magical mainstream that much?

So what else had they set up? Timothy pulled out his wand and began investigating, ignoring the exasperated sighs from behind him; best to take some time rather than walk into an intestine expelling ward.

"Okay…I think the muggle-repelling ward extends out to this fence," he said indicating the sad line of posts that were attempting to hold up the ivy draped chain-link. "There doesn't appear to be anything more dangerous…all right, Wulfric, New Girl grab a non-magical and we'll lead them over," Timothy said, grabbing Chuddy's hand as he did so. Chuddy almost protested, but gritted his teeth and allowed himself to be led through a nettle infested gap as he kept his eyes tightly shut.

"Oh... _oh_ ," he exclaimed as they arrived on the other side of the ward, "it's not boarded up now."

Timothy almost smirked as they made their way round the warehouse to a steel roller shutter that was obviously the entrance to a delivery bay of some sort. Next to it was a fire door, steps complete with bright red safety rail.

"They're complying with building regs," Athena pointed out as Chuddy cautiously made his way up the steps to check the door out.

"All good, boss," Cuddy muttered after his careful examination of the door.

Swiftly they got into position, Chuddy crammed into place on one side of the door, Timothy, Juno and the rest crouched on the steps, weapons ready as Wulfric cast a vanishing charm on the bright red steel door.

As the door disappeared, they poured in, splitting up into pre-ordained groups as they explored the space beyond.

A delivery bay served by the large roller shutter, behind which was a large empty space of cracked concrete floor. Beyond, the space had been filled with large industrial racks, steel framed the shelves formed by pallets. The shelves themselves…Timothy turned on the spot, taking in the multitude of strange bubble-wrapped shapes and boxes looming out of the dark, rammed and stuffed on the shelving wherever they would fit.

There were even several pallets of boxes and even wooden crates at one end. One of them had an orange pump-truck stuck under it ready for use. From the smell there were a certain amount of potions ingredients being stored here. What, Timothy had no idea, but he doubted they were all entirely legal.

Wulfric came round a stack of shrink wrapped boxes, Chuddy trailing in his wake, obviously uncomfortable as he glared into the shadows among the oddly shaped packages.

"Anything?" Timothy muttered.

Wulfric shook his head.

Sighing, Timothy moved cautiously to the small and extremely flimsy looking door that led deeper into the building. All they needed to do was find where the records were kept. Accounts, orders, anything really, so they could duplicate them and see if they could piece anymore together of this Dark Lady…or find some of her actual followers instead of the people she farmed stuff onto. Blasted sub-contracting muggle tendencies. Did anyone work for her directly?

There was a small group with the symbol of Saturn tattooed on their wrists who he was pretty certain were her lackeys, but there were so many strange little groups like that round the Knockturn area, disgruntled, disenfranchised people looking for a little power and payback. Interestingly quite a few of them utterly hated Carrow due to his numerous reforms affecting their recruiting abilities.

He checked the others as he reached for the door handle. It was almost scary how everything was going to plan.

oOo

A steel security door was easily pried from its frame, to reveal…Carrow ground his teeth in frustration as he heaved himself along the small corridor cursing ancient humanity and their stunted proportions. To his relief, things did improve a little after an agonisingly small doorway he had to contort himself through in a most undignified way that the vampires endeavoured to ignore.

Painted bricks, thick with white gloss, cast iron pillars, brick barrel vaulted ceiling, a staircase that wound upwards, narrow and not at all inviting.

"We can check up there, Boss," Annie said in an almost conciliatory tone.

Carrow gave the stairs a nasty glare; he would not be defeated by mere architecture. He glared round at the various doors that were poked into odd places. Obviously this hadn't been the original configuration of the warehouse's interior, its new residents' requirements leading to a series of awkward compromises.

Beside him, the vampires spread out, ghosting around pillars as they peered into odd shaped corners and listened at doors.

"I do believe I have found it," Methuselah piped up, looking slightly more himself, "Renard logistics." He pointed to a plain grey door someone had attached a crude sign to, little more than a piece of plywood decorated by someone of questionable artistic abilities.

Doing his best to hide his frustration, Carrow made his way over, sliding as best he could between the cast iron columns.

"Renard Logistics," he read out, "You've got it? We'll shift it!"

Carrow glared at the door. It proved to be locked, so he shouldered the flimsy thing out of the way as quietly as he could, shoving his way through, plasma pistol at the ready for whatever dubious protections and booby traps he may find. You never knew when the God-Emperor would be generous in his bounty.

Some sort of work area; Carrow glared round at the room as the vampires fanned out around him, a long work bench was set against one wall and there was racking stuffed with all sorts of packaging brown paper and bubble wrap lined envelopes to collapsed cardboard boxes. Mail order business, maybe; he took in the row of perches above, each with its little dish holder for water, owl order too it seemed. Several doors, one of them in a glass screen wall that lead further into the building, its textured glass panels dark in the peeling worn wooden frame.

The place was truly uninspiring, nothing but a shabby working space and an office; he poked one of the flimsy door open, filled with box files and paperwork waiting for attention…there was something here, just on the edge of his senses. He reached out with his mind…something dark and rotten, hiding in the shadows…over there…he turned…

"Who…who," a male voice blurted out doing a passable imitation of an owl, "who are you? We're…we're closed…we're…we're…"

Carrow turned to find a short man in plain robes, glasses perched on his nose, staring down the barrel of Annie's gun, his eyes wide as a bead of sweat made its way down his temple. Behind him, one of the doors was open, leading into a small office. It was almost impressive that this unimpressive scrap of humanity had managed to hide quite so thoroughly from them.

The little man's eyes flicked to him and then back to the weapon as he shuffled backwards until he could go no further, fumbling at his robes in a seemingly nervous gesture. Or maybe he was activating a panic alarm or alert of some kind. Carrow tensed, stalking forward his armour's servos hissing in the tense silence.

A crack of apparition confirmed his suspicions. Gesturing to the vampires to take cover, he dived for the space beside the main door, pistol ready.

"Pete, you okay?" a female voice called. The owner of the voice paused in the doorway. "What the hell…GET AWAY FROM HIM! HE'S DONE NOTHING…"

Carrow watched in amusement as the not particularly tall woman stormed into the room, her robes flapping around her jean legs, red plait bouncing angrily on her back as she stomped up to this Pete and shoved herself forcibly in front of him, not once breaking the flow of her rant.

"…AND AS FOR YOU, YOU OVERGROWN LUMP, YOU'RE NOT EVEN AN AUROR, SO HOW IS THIS EVEN LEGAL?"

Carrow scowled in annoyance. Of course this was legal, he was doing this in the name of the God-Emperor, for the good of humanity, no matter how small the action…

There was movement on the other side of the glass screen wall. Without a thought he charged forward…

oOo

There was a distant sound almost of splintering wood. He shared a look with Wulfric, "did you hear what I heard…"

Muffled voices, followed soon after by shouting, angry, frightened shouting. Timothy shared horrified looks with Wulfric, grabbing the door handle and wrenching it open, indicating to the others they should stay put.

"Is that supposed to happen?" he heard New Girl ask as he stormed down the corridor on the other side, his browning held at the ready. This was bad, this was very bad.

The shouting had resolved into a female voice, angry and frightened as it bellowed at something unseen, vague shapes visible through the glass panelled screen that formed the corridor wall, the brown paint peeling at the edges. He slowed to a halt; maybe he'd been a little hasty. Maybe someone had just dropped something a little _exciting_. Heavens knows there must be plenty of opportunities in a place like this, all they needed was someone to try juggling an erumpet horn or something, but in case it wasn't…maybe they should retreat, leave as if they'd never been there…

He began to back away…with a thunderous crash, the glass screen exploded behind him. Whirling, Timothy, browning at the ready, came face to face with the largest pistol he had ever seen, a pistol that was horribly familiar.

Icy green eyes stared back at him, as he did his best not to flinch or waver. Seemingly satisfied, the plasma pistol withdrew. Carrow smirked down at him, his smile broadening as he took in Wulfric and the other members of Timothy's retinue as they stood at the other end of the corridor, weapons ready.

"I am taking it," Carrow rumbled, "that you are not investigating corrupt accounting and bribery within the Department of Muggle relations, not to mention the distribution of morally corrupting material."

"Ah, no," Timothy said as he tried to get his heart rate under control, "no, we were following up a lead from…"

"Sir? Oh, hello Timothy," Caroline said as she leaned around the ruined edges of the glass screen. She was about to say more, but was abruptly shouldered out of the way by a shorter woman, who crunched angrily through the broken glass in heavy boots, her open robe flapping around her jean clad legs.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" she snarled pointing an angry finger at Timothy, "wait a minute, you're the Giant Weed's little friend, aren't you?" Glaring over his shoulder, she snarled in disbelief. "Oh, for _fuck's_ _sake_. What is this? Does it look like I've got a revolving door or something? What the hell are you lot here for anyway?"

"Confiscation of morally corrupting material," Carrow rumbled.

The small angry lady gave him a sarcastic look. "Seriously, was that all you could come up with? What about you? Any stupid excuses?"

"A possible dark lady," Timothy glared back determined not to back down. If he didn't let Carrow get to him, he certainly wasn't going to let someone who barely came up to Carrow's waist succeed. The angry lady gave him a nervous angry frown and a questioning shrug. Carrow, on the other hand, cocked his head, clearly interested.

"Curly horns from an experiment that went wrong...farms her dirty work out to other people," Timothy explained, "possibly has a group of nutty followers stealing victims for her in the Kockturn area…"

The angry lady frowned. "Oh, _her,_ " she sneered. "I'm not associated with her, I'll have you know…acquired some stuff for her once. Never doing _that_ again. The bitch never paid for her goods so I withheld them, and then of course, she got nasty…"

"You're the Fox," Carrow stated behind them.

The woman, the Fox, rolled her eyes. "Well yes, bit slow aren't you," she sneered over her shoulder at Carrow.

Timothy narrowed his eyes. "What did you acquire for her?" he demanded.

The Fox shrugged with a huff. "Just some…what do you call them, like blank ward stones or something? I highly doubt she was going to use them for wards, though."

"What else?" Carrow asked in a rumbling murmur sidling closer, "there was something else wasn't there?"

The Fox swallowed nervously, grimaced trying to keep up her air of ritous fury. "Fine," she said through gritted teeth, "there was a hideous little statue, looks like a mound of melting slugs…but the bitch never paid for it so she never got it…and we got stuck with it."

"There's something really wrong with it," Pete said, round face pale, "nothing's gone right since."

The Fox glared at him and he quickly shut up.

"I will destroy it," Carrow announced into the uneasy silence.

"You can?" the Fox's voice cracked, "you can do that?"

"We've tried everything," she said, "blasting hexes, dropping it into a furnace…sulphuric acid for fuck's sake."

"We didn't try Fiendfyre," Pete said, "but…but that was more because of burning the building down. Our luck has been so bad…"

"Where is it," Carrow growled, "it is nearby. I can _feel_ it." He turned slowly on the spot, glints of warp-fyre beginning to spark off his psy-hood. "I will make a path to it."

"No, no," the Fox rushed past him, "no need…just," she began heaving at an old set of shelving full of stuffed manila folders and piles of paperwork, "…just behind here."

She jerked out of the way as enormous metal gauntlets reached over her head grasping the side of the bookcase and shifting it to one side as if it weighed nothing.

A gust of air rushed out of the space beyond bringing with it the stench of rot and dying things. But Carrow was undeterred, the Purgatus of St Seraph more energetic now as it slithered around his torso, glowing softly in reaction to the taint in the air.

The space beyond had once been a part of the office before it had been blocked off, the foul object sitting on a bench in the remains of a cardboard box that had become damp and blackened with mould, slowly falling apart as it decayed, mingling with the slimy remains of some paperback books and an old telephone directory. The bench itself was also suffering Carrow saw, ropes of mould hanging of its underside even as the infection had crept up the wall, beginning to make its way across the ceiling.

He had arrived just in time it seemed.

Prayers of purity armoured his soul against such taint, and as he began his chant gathering the blessings of the God-Emperor to himself he could almost pinpoint the moment when the cursed thing realised its doom was at hand, rearing up, collecting itself in an attempt to strike at this new threat. But it was already too late as he released his gathered pool of purity the wave of cleansing energy blasting away from him in all directions rattling the walls and windows around him. Above he could hear faint cries and shouts as people were abruptly woken from their slumbers.

Carrow breathed in deeply, relishing the scent of ozone the air held now, eyes sharp for any remaining threat but, he stirred the dust that was all that remained of the bench, it appeared to be eliminated, the ceilings and walls now just stained grey were the threat had been crawling. He touched the stain a moment ready for any hint, any shadow or threat, but no…nothing.

A groan came from behind him and he turned, blinking in surprise at what he found.

"A warning would have been," Caroline snapped as she pulled Annie back to her feet. One of Timothy's soldiers was propping him up while another was dabbing urgently at the blood that was now sluggishly oozing from his nose.

"I'm fine. Honestly," Timothy muttered as he slowly pulled himself to his feet, "just caught me by surprise is all."

"Surprise?" the Fox muttered as she staggered over pale and dazed. Peering around him her hard face broke into a desperate grin. "It's gone, finally. It's gone…it's bloody gone."

To Carrow's acute consternation the small women flung her arms as for round his waist as she could reach. "I could bloody kiss you right now," she announced.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

What the heck, the God Emperor jerked out of his slumber staring suspiciously in the direction of the flare of energy. What was darling Xander up to now…but it hadn't felt strong enough to be World War Three starting so there was that…

Groaning he rolled off the bunk. If he was up he was up. When they had been designing the Luna habitation modules there had been much debate about what the interiors should be like and so each one had come out rather different as they tried out various ideas. He'd ended up with the one from when they had got a magical tent maker involved. It was rather like staying in a slightly downhill seaside boarding house. The Belfast sink in the kitchenette even had a little gingham curtain on elastic to hide where the bucket lived underneath.

Three cups of coffee and a quick breakfast later he was busily struggling into the tight confines of his pressure suit while reviewing the itinerary for the day ahead on his data slate. So much to do and so little time, though it looked like some of the results had come in for some of the initial mineral sampling they had been doing around the site. Some of them looked very promising too.

He was standing in the habitat airlock waiting for the green light to come on indicating when all the air had been pumped out when a sudden realisation hit him…this was going to turn into a small town quite quickly…and eventually a city…with everything you would expect to find in such places, including schools…and small children…and television…and someone in the future was going to come up with a children's program specifically aimed at those children …with nasty ear-worm songs about such things as pressure suit safety…

He grimaced as the outer airlock doors snapped open, the cheery little tune about _put your helmet on_ and _click clack goes the catch_ rattled around his head.

The sunlight was stark, unfiltered by any atmosphere, the visor of his helmet quickly compensating for any glare, revealing the austere grey landscape of the crater in all its stark beauty, the low crags that marked its edges rearing up against the velvety black sky. It didn't matter how many times he looked at it he still couldn't get used to being able to see so many stars…and the Milky Way…

He shook his head, time to get to work.

This was going to take some getting used to, he waited for the light for the airlock door for the main lab they were still setting up to turn to green. The whole fiddle with the doors, but he hadn't been able to figure a better, or safer way to do it. Maybe faster, more efficient pumps, he thought as the light flicked to green and the lock on the door spun to the open position. Something to think about, but for now, he stepped into the airlock, they were all just going to have to become incredibly patient with doors.

"Professor Schmidt."

He turned as he removed his helmet to find Strange standing there smiling up at him, still in her pressure suit which she had covered with a open fronted robe, a mug of tea clutched in her hands.

"Sleep well?" she asked, "should be getting the next shipment of equipment coming in today."

"Hopefully they'll have packed some decent coffee," the God Emperor said, "plus we really need to do something about setting up that communications relay Earth side."

"Very true…have you noticed the way the dust is getting in," Strange said, "I'm certain all our work and habitation units are air-tight and safe, but the dust…it's already building up in the corners."

I suppose we're treading in a certain amount…" the God Emperor said, "it's interesting though, I was washing it off in the…"

The floor began to undulate beneath them, bucking and shaking in long waves, equipment around the lab rattling, a pencil rolling off a nearby counter and on to the floor.

"Merlin," exclaimed one of the lab technicians as the shaking died down, "what was that?"

"A moonquake," the God Emperor breathed, "we need seismometers…and dampeners for the buildings."

"I'll put them on the list as urgent," Strange said.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

At least the overpriced coffee was nice and hot, Timothy thought as he took a sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. Though considering the cost you'd expect it to be better quality and come in a gold plated cup. And poor Wulfric was missing all this, having been pulled away by his handlers for something yet again.

Around them the Weapons Expo was packed pre the official opening as people milled around making last minute changes to stands, tweaking displays, dusting already immaculate equipment. Among them mingled the odd VIP customer, let in before the masses for their exclusive previews.

The stalls looked almost the same as last year too, grey, beige, anonymous low key, except for the one with the performance clothing that had gone for silver fittings and a back board with a print of a sunlit alpine scene.

"Pushing the boat out a bit, aren't they?" he nudged Maria Curtis.

Curtis, looking severe and professional in a navy blue dress-suit and pearls, gave the stand a critical once over. "It looks rather smart, I think…and sensible too. You could wear their products while mountain climbing, or arctic exploring I suppose."

"Hmmm," Timothy agreed, "we've kept to much the same as last year, haven't we?"

"As long as Carrow hasn't interfered," Curtis sighed as they turned a corner towards the section of the convention devoted to personal armaments. "I've done what I can to keep him at bay, but you know…" she rolled her eyes. "Even though he's at that school he's still managing to interfere in things, sending demanding messages all the time. That blasted satellite link…what were you thinking."

Timothy hunched his shoulders, as if he'd had anything to do with it, "complain to R&D because I was not involved…at all. And if you think that's bad, there was an incident down in Cornwall. He set something on fire, in a way, and it's still burning."

"What," Curtis stared at him.

"Caused a little bit of an upset with both the, err," he glanced round cautiously, "DMLE and the regular police. People from the local village keep trying to get near to take pictures. It's causing some real headaches."

"Blasted man," Curtis grumbled, "and I thought teaching would keep him out of trouble for a little while."

Shame about all the poor traumatised children, Timothy grimaced as he sipped the awful coffee, "as if he'd let a little thing like that get in his way. I wouldn't be surprised if he was using it as a recruiting opportunity actually, with the senior years. All those young people heading out into the world wanting to make something of themselves and then Carrow just happens to be there offering them opportunities they'd be hard pressed to pass by," he scowled to himself just as a horrified squawking came from somewhere ahead in the crowd.

Nerves jangling Timothy craned his neck half expecting to see Carrow up to no good, because who else would cause trouble at a place like this.

"What has he done now," Curtis growled her pace speeding up. Timothy chased after her.

Ahead a small knot of people suddenly ducked, one of them frantically swatting at the small flying object which turned, cheeped in recognition making a bee-line straight towards Timothy much to his resigned horror.

One of Carrow's creations, a servo-skull, this one made from a cat's skull covered in intricate golden filigree, the incised runes across its cranium glowing a soft blue. The brass tentacle that hung down from where its lower jaw should have been clutched an object almost as large as the servo-skull itself.

Curtis took one horrified look at the thing. "That bloody man," she snarled storming off, the small crowd leaping out of her way.

"Wait," Timothy called but the servo-skull jerked to a halt in front of him at that moment, the magical devise issuing a triumphant beep as it thrust its load towards him. Puzzled he took it and regretted it instantly. On the front of the leaflet was a lurid image of the Gilded Lily (ruddy ugly thing) driving through a giant laurel wreath while firing most of its guns. Underneath…

… _the glorious Thunder II Class tank…built under the auspices of the Emperor of Mankind…crush the enemies of Humanity…_

"Of all the…" Timothy groaned. Obvious magical devise at a _muggle_ weapons fait delivering leaflets that if they didn't get Aquila Ind. banned outright it was going to be a very close call, and probably some very fast talking on Curtis's part.

Would anyone notice if he just cleared off home, he glanced around to find himself being stared at by rival-company people and VIPs alike.

The servo-skull chirped an enquiry.

"You only had the one leaflet to give out?" he asked it trying to look unobtrusive as he sidled away. The servo-skull peeped happily waving its tentacle, clearly very pleased with itself.

"Yes, yes you did, you did a very good job," Timothy said and the blasted object preened happily. "We'd best get back to our booth," he sighed wondering if this was the only thing Carrow had managed to do.

Oh the stomach clenching anticipation as he waited to find out, he chuckled darkly to himself as he made his way towards the Aquila Ind. booth, the servo skull now clinging to the epaulette of his coat allowing itself to pulled along.

The Aquila Ind. booth was much as he had expected, grey arched panels and glass displays with antique gold fittings, the latest models of Cadia and the new energy rifle proudly on display laid out tastefully on crushed grey velvet. But in front…he put a hand over his eyes. Maybe he was hallucinating and it would just go away.

No. No such luck. At least it explained the bloody leaflets he supposed.

The _Gilded Lily_ (or as Carrow preferred to call her the _Spear of Retribution_ ) sat there in all her glory, her black paintwork polished to a glossy sheen, her rows of rivets glaringly obvious, her gilded decoration shimmering in the artificial light, swags of flowers draped across her front and along her sponsons, giving the air a hint of rose and jasmine. He watched in horrified fascination as the florist and her assistants held up an enormous wreath to Carrow.

The large man who currently looked as if he'd escaped from a best dressed Satanist competition plucked the floral creation from their hands effortlessly, slipping it over the barrel of the forward facing plasma gun.

"Is that satisfactory Sir?" the florist asked as Carrow stood back to admire the effect.

The florist pulled a disposable camera out of her pocket as her assistants began to clear up their equipment. "Okay if I take some pictures?" she smiled up at Carrow. The large man apparently agreed because she was soon snapping away, a manic gleam in her eyes as she did her best to capture the Gilded Lily in all her floral glory from every possible angle.

Oh brilliant, Timothy thought, he could just see the woman's portfolio "…weddings…birthdays…funerals…and look, decorative wreaths for your personal tank, suitable for every occasion…" He had a feeling she wasn't going to get much call for it.

Seeing an opportunity he stalked forward ignoring the sniggers and whispered comments from the gathering crowd. "Sir, I thought we'd all agreed that it would be best to leave the tank proto-type at home," he said trying to ignore the excited commotion the Gilded Lily was causing.

"Ah, Timothy," Carrow smiled down at him, all predatory teeth. "Doesn't she look magnificent? I was quite right that we should have her as the centre piece of our display."

Timothy resisted the temptation to go and find a wall to knock his head against. "Until we're thrown out and _banned_ for violating the rules of the convention," he said instead, "this could be construed as glorifying war!" he gestured to the armoured abomination, its gilded putti giving him reproachful looks.

"Not bloody likely," an older gentleman in a dark suit muttered slightly too loudly. "Nice rivets," his colleague smirked.

Timothy ignored them. "See, the organisers are here already," he gestured to where Curtis was attempting to do damage control with several people in logoed polo shirts and lanyards with staff ID cards.

"I doubt we'll get many orders for tanks anyway," he said as the argument between Curtis and the organisers escalated, though Curtis seemed to be gaining the upper hand.

"Maybe, maybe not," Carrow seemed utterly unfazed. "I have made sure the sales staff have been suitably educated as to her not inconsiderable abilities, and I have leaflets that I have had distributed. Those who to live to wage war will see her for what she is." He turned to admire the tank once more tweaking the gun barrel wreath until it sat just so.

"Yes, about those leaflets," Timothy growled as he brandished the blasted thing, the servo-skull tugging at his coat collar as he stepped closer.

"Right," Curtis stormed back over looking both furious and triumphant, "it stays, but those bloody things don't," she pointed an accusing finger at the servo-skull still clinging to Timothy's great coat. "Round them up and get rid of them," she said jabbing Carrow in the waist, "and don't do this again!" Turning on her heel Curtis stalked off, presumably to find something nice and calming, like more horrible overpriced coffee, Timothy assumed.

Carrow watched her go expression unreadable.

"Sir, the leaflets," Timothy hissed, glaring as icy green eyes turned towards him. "Better hope Curtis doesn't get her hands on one. They're potentially another issue."

The large man shifted, seemingly torn between puzzlement and annoyance as he glanced around the large hall. "This is a fair specialising in instruments of war. We are here to show off our products and procure sales to ensure the future of Aquila Ind. Are we not?"

Timothy nodded slowly wondering where Carrow was going with this and whether he should be making a run for safety.

"As are all the other businesses here," he flung out an arm gesturing towards the expanse of the crowded hall.

"They are," Timothy agreed suspicious.

"Then why all this ridiculous tip-toeing around the obvious? We are all selling instruments of war to those who which to wage war or protect their people from the predation of others…"

He was pretty certain that Carrow was actually missing a very large point here, Timothy tried to get a word in sideways.

"No," Carrow raised an admonishing finger, so large it would have been comical if he didn't know those hands could crush his skull with little effort. "This is like dealing with the very worst jelly spined, sycophantic of politicians who dance around a difficult issue never resolving anything and failing to please anyone but themselves and their supporters. I refuse to deal with it."

He turned in a swirl of embossed leather cassock, the beads of his finger-bone necklace rattling. "I will inspect the booths," he strode away disappearing among the crowds.

Turning Timothy found himself alone with the crowd of gawkers, the ugliest most floral tank in the world and the blasted servo-skull. "Looks like it's just us then, gathering your friends up," he sighed.

The little servo-skull gave him an encouraging cheep.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

McGonagall shook her head in amused frustration as Finnagn left the office. Run a pub indeed. She had a suspicion that the young man would quickly find the day-to-day minutiae of running his own establishment not nearly as exciting as he thought…that's if he didn't drink the place dry…

Now who was next…ah…Hermione Granger…

McGonagall sighed heavily as she looked up at the young woman sitting across her desk. Hermione had been such an energetic and inquisitive child, definitely an asset to Gryffindor house. Now she was steadily growing up into a cold and stony faced young woman, Carrow's finger prints clearly all over her, from her stony stare to the frankly ridiculous get-up she had recently taken to wearing under her school robes.

And of course her desires for her future…

"So you will be working for Mr Carrow when you leave Hogwarts," McGonagall looked sharply at Granger over her glasses.

Granger gave her a sharp nod.

"Doing what precisely," McGonagall asked hoping that she didn't really find out.

"I will be his apprentice," Granger said. Which was supremely unhelpful and considering what she knew of Carrow, worrying. Was she going to be invited to the girl's funeral at some point in the not too distant future? She fervently hoped not.

Granger scrambled to fill the silence. Nice to know Carrow hadn't managed to completely warp the girl.

"I'll be learning how to track down and…eliminate threats to the human race," Granger said, leaning forward her face intense, "threats that might otherwise be completely overlooked, go completely undetected."

"Right," McGonagall did not feel at all reassured. "Have you through about which NEWTs would suit your…career path best?"

Granger nodded and began reeling off an ever increasing list, "…and Arithmancy is potentially very important. I was thinking of History too but I'm not sure how useful it will be…maybe I could self study…"

McGonagall pursed her lips, "it is probably best to limit yourself to four NEWTs, a maximum of six. Anything more than that I think even you will find quite taxing."

Granger nodded reluctantly.

"And have you thought of any alternatives…in case your apprenticeship doesn't go as you hope?"

The girl actually an expression for the first time in the meeting, annoyed with an under-current of worry, but still…an expression. "Maybe the Aurors…or the Ministry…"

Which would also probably entail working for Mr Carrow in some way if Albus's complaints about the Wizengamot were to be believed.

"I Was thinking ore of an alternative that didn't involve Mr Carrow," she suggested gently.

Granger was definitely looking confused now, "I…er…hit-witch?"

McGonagall sighed. Carrow had a lot to answer for.

Who was next on her list…ah yes…Neville Longbottom. She remembered Frank and Alice so well, and wasn't that a tragedy.

Young Neville had been so nervous and unconfident when he'd arrived at the School, but he'd been sorted to her house, and then when he'd become involved with the Defence Club and their particular brand of insanity he'd blossomed into a confident young man.

His parents would have been so proud. Such a pity they weren't in a position to help their son pick his NEWTs…

"I err…I want to be a plant collector," Neville said, "you know…travel to remote places looking for rare and unusual plants…and maybe I might discover something that's never been seen before…take cuttings collect seeds…bring them home. That sort of thing," he shrugged.

That was a pleasant surprise. "Not Carrow's company then," she asked curious as to his reasons.

"Er…no," Neville grimaced. "Just no…he's too…" he waved a hand as he struggled for the right words. "I don't think I'd deal well with the things he fights…mentally…if that makes sense."

So Longbottom had his mother's common sense. She gave him a small smile, "of course you'll want to take Herbology. Your predicted OWL grade is excellent…have you thought of taking charms as well. I would have thought it a most useful and practical skill for you. I've also noticed since achieving your animagus transformation your Transfiguration grade has improved by leaps and bounds and so I would be very happy to see you in my NEWT class."

Neville gave her a small delighted smile…

Patil was next, who was refreshingly normal for a young lady her age…

And then there was the gap where Harry Potter should have been. She sighed to herself memories of the boy bitter-sweet. How in Merlin's name had he grown up into what he was now? She hurriedly jerked away from that train of thought and the unpleasant places it lead. Who was next…Mr Thomas…

…who also turned out to be refreshingly normal wanting a career making racing brooms…

…finally, the last one, Ronald Weasley. The last member of the trifecta of horrible in the Gryffindor fifth years, who had turned into a most serious and rather driven young man, his days of slacking off with his friends far behind him. Definitely a welcome contrast to the Twins. Mind you, they'd calmed down quite a bit these past few years too…

"I want to join the Aurors," Weasley stared at her.

"Not Mr Carrow then?" McGonagall asked.

Weasley actually winced. Interesting.

"Er…no," he shifted uncomfortably, "Carrow is…"

"Not Harry?" she suggested.

Weasley's pained expression deepened, "no…no he's not. I err…rather not work for Carrow," he looked almost guilty. "He's a bit too bonkers for me."

"I want to make a difference, help people, catch bad guys…sort of like Carrow does…but less intense…so I thought Aurors," he shrugged, "I've certainly got some relevant experience."

"Your Defence grade is certainly high enough," McGonagall nodded, "you're going to need Potions too. I'm sure you understand how strict Professor Snape is about these things…"

Weasley nodded.

"You're currently receiving a solid EE for Potions. With a little bit more effort I'm sure you'd be able to pull that up to an O…"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Castle Street…why did he always save Castle Street for last Timothy grumbled to himself as he jogged round the corner on to the steep road that wound up the hill towards the Lodge, passed the garden with all the honking daffodils. He was certain the lady who lived there was actually a muggle. But what did he do? March up her front path and demand she grub them all up…or worse report her to the DMLE… no, he huffed to himself, best to pretend he couldn't hear the soft discordant honking as he ran past.

At least it wasn't as bad as the old gent on the council estate who'd actually succeeded in attracting fairies to his garden. The results were beautiful but legally…absolute bloody nightmare. How could he tell this man in his seventies to destroy his pride and joy, the thing he lived for? In the end he just couldn't and they'd gone away hoping the neighbours would think the old fellow had somehow managed to attract dragonflies to garden…or maybe they would just chalk it down to Godric's Hollow being a generally odd place.

He drifted past a privet hedge with lobelia trying to squash out from underneath like a purple floral waterfall lost in thought. Two months till Hogwarts finished and Felix returned from his first year, hopefully with his eyebrows.

And of course that meant that darling Allesandor was also going to return in two months time when his convalescent teaching post finished, and he would come back, and so would the nosy vampires, and Artemis…

Well that had spoilt the mood…

Something slammed into his back sending him flying into the pavement with grazing contact. Looking up he was just in time to see a flurry of colour on a hover board bounce off the bonnet of a police car that had pulled out of a side street.

"Brilliant, just bloody brilliant," he grumbled as he pulled himself to his feet inspecting the damage. Grazed knees, there was even a trickle of blood down his shin, his right elbow felt like it had been completely skinned and his chin, he gave it a cautious prod, well that stung, he winced his fingers coming away bloody. Blast it.

"Are you all right Sir," a concerned voice asked.

Looking up Timothy found a police man watching him with concern, a big burly no-nonsense looking bloke with close-cropped hair who was watching him carefully.

Timothy blinked at him one eyed. "I'm fine," he tried a reassuring smile rather impressed at the way burly-copper managed to hide his wince.

"If you're sure…I do have a first aid kit in the car," burly-copper said over his shoulder as he strode back to the patrol car.

Timothy sighed, he really was fine. It was just some little grazes, he'd had far worse injuries…

Burly-copper reappeared bearing a green plastic box in triumph. "This won't take a minute Sir," he said pulling out some alcohol wipes. Timothy tried backing away as politely as he could but then found himself trapped against the hedge, his knees now feeling as if they were on fire as burly-copper attacked them with his instrument of torture. That was when the other police officer, who reminded him of a whippet returned, the hover board tucked under his arm with its owner trailing beside him reluctantly.

He…or maybe she looked pretty typical for the young people he'd seen wandering around the town recently, metallic blue baggy shorts that came down to the knee and clashed violently with the loose hooded jacket who's garish pattern bounced, flashed and wriggled as if it were trying to escape its two dimensional confines. And then there were his/her trainers. The silver blocky things didn't have laces, instead there were a row of catches up the front of each shoe their geometric shapes flashing and changing colours at random. A ridiculous fur hat with cat ears and a stripe of metallic blue face paint across the cheeks of the youth finished off the odd ensemble.

Timothy blinked, face carefully blank at the definitely magically influenced outfit. Probably best not to draw too much attention to it.

"Do you understand why we stopped you today?" whippet-officer was asking.

He or she looked sullen and maybe a little worried as they shuffled under the officer's gaze. "Yeah," they finally muttered.

Whippet-officer held up the hover-board dubiously, "that was extremely dangerous what you did on your conveyance. Not only did you collide with a moving vehicle you also knocked over a pedestrian…"

Now the definitely worried youth actually looked round his (or her) eyes going wide with fright as they sucked in a breath the cat ears of the ridiculous fur hat folding back.

Brilliant. An emotions broadcasting hat. Probably from the Knight Market, it would certainly take some pretty nifty charms work to make and he was pretty certain this young person was about as magical as a brick.

"I'm so sorry Sir," they stuttered, "I was late for collage and…"

Muggle, timothy internally sighed.

"…I was rushing and…"

"I'm fine," Timothy hurriedly tried to reassure the youth before he/she dissolved into even more dramatic emotional displays. "Honestly, it's just some grazes…"

"Aren't you one of the people from Aquila Industries," Burly-copper said his body language shifting to low grade suspicious as he paused in his painful ministrations to Timothy's elbow.

"Yes," Timothy reluctantly admitted wondering where this was going.

"Lots of funny rumours flying around about that place," Whippet-copper said as Burly-copper slapped a fresh alcohol wipe on the graze on his chin. He only just managed to suppress a yelp of pain the distant rumble of a shuttle taking off vibrating the ground a moment as it arced up into the heavens.

"So where's that going then," Burly-copper asked as he jabbed at his chin with the wipe.

"The Moon…probably," Timothy managed to get out through gritted teeth.

Burly-copper stared at him, "normally I'd think you were having me on, but we just stopped a kid on a hover board, so…"

oOo

Could this morning get any worse Timothy grumbled to himself as he made his way up the front steps of the Lodge trying to let himself in as quietly as possible.

Anyone about…he scanned the oak panelled space of the main entrance hall, the many disapproving Potter portraits glaring down at him for having disturbed their rest.

Good, no one in evidence. Taking his chance he walked quietly towards the stairs intent in his rooms and a nice hot shower.

"There you are!"

Timothy turned just in time to see Healer Slaughter bearing down on him. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Where the hell have you been?"

"Running," Timothy edged away up the stairs, "I went for a jog like I normally do in the mornings." He glared back.

"Except this morning you decided to do it on your knees," Slaughter lunged, grabbing hold of him and began marching him through towards the kitchens and the Undercroft.

"Is this really necessary?" Timothy hoped he didn't sound too much like he was whining.

Slaughter shot him a look. "I needed to talk to you about the new girl. Finally figured out what's wrong with her, why she keeps collapsing the way she does," he grunted as he shoved him into a chair, turning to gather supplies.

Did he dare make a run for it, Timothy gave the door a longing look. On second thoughts, maybe not, he caught Slaughter's expression as the man turned hands full of various potions and lotions.

"New Girl has an illness uniquely all her very own," Slaughter said as he dumped his supplies on the counter turning to him with a small vial that he shoved into his hands.

Reluctantly Timothy downed the dark green concoction, an anti-infection elixir he was far too familiar with, grimacing at the sensation and taste of slimy old cabbage slid down his throat.

"It's her blood sugar levels," Slaughter turned to him holding a brush and a small bowl filled with a green mixture, "she can't seem to maintain them the way she should. Fascinating hey?" Slaughter said as he dipped the brush in the green mixture slapping it on a grazed knee with excessive force Timothy thought as he tried not to cringe away, his left knee feeling as if it was being set on fire for the second time in only an hour.

"So…like diabetes," he managed to get out through gritted teeth, his eye watering with the pain.

Slaughter paused in his ministrations, "diabetes mellitus…hmmm. It's possible. But there's the added complication of what was done to her, how has that affected her body, is it really an issue with the function of her pancreas? And do the pancreases of vampires, or even vampire like creatures function in the same way as that of a regular person…"

Slaughter moved from his right knee to his elbow, Timothy bighting back a whimper.

"Can't wait till the Coven returns soon. Did you know vampire physiology is a mainly uncharted field? So it'll be interesting to compare the blood sugars of a healthy vampire with our young lady. Shame I can't dissect one of them. It would really help with the study."

"I think they would probably object pretty strongly to that," Timothy winced as the brush rasped his elbow.

"Standing in the way of science that is," Slaughter grunted, "also…New Girl needs a proper name. She can't remember her's at all…had her memories scrambled by those bastards..." Slaughter looked at him expectantly.

"I'll er…see to it," Timothy hissed.

"Hey Tim…what the _hell_ have you done to yourself now," Wulfric's voice came from the door and Timothy groaned. Just what he needed. Turning his head awkwardly he was just able to see Wulfric marching towards him a look of concern and anger on his face.

"I'm fine, hones…oww," he yelped as the paintbrush suddenly swiped across his chin the raw skin protesting the treatment. "I just got knocked over that's all…"

"You were supposed to be going jogging," Wulfric jabbed a disapproving finger at him amber eyes flashing, "not whatever this is," he gestured angrily at Timothy's knees. Okay, Timothy conceded they did look bad, though being coated with stinging green sludge really wasn't helping. He ignored Slaughter's amused smirk.

"It's only a matter of time before you come back with only one leg, so next time I'm going with you," Wulfric glared at him daring him to disagree.

"I was just running," Timothy glared back beginning to get annoyed, "it was an out-of-the-blue accident…"

"Ah Sir, I've got some papers I need you to look at," Percy's voice drifted closer. "Oh…ah…am I interrupting something?"

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"This has got to be one of the worst things we've ever done," Neville grumbled as he trailed after them.

Ron hushed him, though he too didn't look happy his face deathly pale beneath the grease paint. Hermione glared at them over her shoulder hefting her energy gun meaningfully. As they approached the Centaur village she signalled them to fan out.

"This is all going to end in tears," Neville muttered to himself as he gave his battered Cadia a last check over quickly taking cover among the undergrowth.

oOo

It was such a lovely Saturday afternoon, Remus sighed to himself as he stretched the kinks out of his back. From his desk in the History classroom he could catch a glimpse of the lawn rolling down to the lake and the edge of the Forbidden Forest itself, all if it looking so bright and inviting, late spring flowers everywhere, the trees a strident green their leaves fresh and new with the promise of summer.

And here he was stuck inside supervising a bloody detention. Stepping over Padfoot who was fast asleep and doing a very good impression of a flacarty rug he took a stroll around the classroom, taking a surreptitious glance over Creevey's shoulder as he passed. Mr Creevey seemed to have started quite neatly with his five hundred lines of, _"I must not run through the corridors while carrying stolen weapons,"_ but over time the boy's handwriting had degenerated into a barely legible scrawl as he tried to stretch out his hand undercover of the desk.

Maybe that would teach young Colin to run through the corridors with a war-hammer he'd obviously stolen off one of the suits of armour, Remus snorted to himself as he casually strolled past the row of high arched windows. Maybe they needed to encourage the armour to be more aggressive…and hopefully Colin would find something more productive to do with his time…except he was a hardcore Defence Club member and busily dragging his little brother into their particular brand of insanity…

Sudden movement caught his attention and he glanced out of the window just in time to see members of the Defence Club scrambling out of the Forbidden Forest at full sprint in a disorganised panic he'd never seen before. The reason why soon became clear as a number of Centaurs broke through the tree-line cantering after the retreating students brandishing short swords and small shields, though several were taking aim with recurve bows.

"Oh they haven't," Remus breathed, of all the stupid things they could have done. Ten guesses who put them up to it and they all began with…

"My bloody godson put them up to this didn't he," Padfoot muttered right by his ear. Remus bit back a yelp but couldn't help barking his knees on the stone work.

"Mr Creevey I think we're going to have to finish your detention early," Remus said as he headed towards the classroom door not bothering to look back, "it appears some of your friends are about to be in a great deal of trouble."

"What if they actually managed to injure one of the Centaurs? Sirius muttered as they made their way towards the main staircases.

"They better bloody hadn't," Remus growled dread beginning to build in his gut as he went down the main stairs as fast as he could against the tide of agitated students.

The Castle resembled a kicked-over bee hive as they finally made it to the Entrance Hall just in time to witness the Headmaster storm past, his face a uncharacteristic mask of fury.

"This is all Carrow's doing I'm sure of it," Snape's voice came from behind them. Remus glanced over his shoulder to find the normally sour man trying to hide a smirk. Predictably Sirius was straight on the defensive. "I've got nothing to do with this…or him….how do you know anyway?"

"Something I must have overheard," Snape smirked as he strode past them towards the chaos.

oOo

"Nev was right," Ron groaned as he realised they were now surrounded by a group of very angry Centaurs all brandishing weapons of various kinds, mainly swords a tiny and unhelpful part of his mind supplied. Oh look and haven't they got a really nice long reach with them too.

"Ripper," he yelled as he ducked under a vicious blow stumbling back into an angry and sullen Neville who was refusing to talk to them and had changed into his bear form to make this even easier. "You need to do something," Ron screamed, "this was your idea." He blocked another blow, parrying it with his Cadia, jabbing at the furious horse-man with his bayonet as the being reared flailing his hooves.

"I don't think I'm going to have to," Hermione shouted back, "Carrow's here…we just need to hang on…a little longer."

"Err…Hermione," Ron stuttered as he dodged a slashing sword, "Dumbledore's here too and he looks _furious_."

There was a thunderous series of explosions as the Headmaster swept past them placing himself very firmly between them and the angry Centaurs.

"This will cease _now_." The Headmaster wasn't exactly shouting but his voice definitely had that quality Mum's had got the few times the Twins had really overstepped the boundaries…a chill swept down his spine as Dumbledore turned and looked at them his expression angry, concerned and just plain disappointed.

"…the actions of these individual students does not represent the School, are not sanctioned by the School…"

"We demand restitution," the oldest Centaur bellowed, "this was an armed intrusion into our village, an affront, they were hunting us."

Ron felt his mind begin to wander as the adrenalin began to wear off leaving him shaking and woozy. Desperately he tried to rally himself, focus on his surroundings, what was it Carrow was always saying…"ONLY THE DEAD MAY REST," or something….

"…and you will have it," Dumbledore was saying, his voice hard and cold. "It is quite clear who the ultimate author of this latest fiasco is…Allesandor Carrow."

" _The Abomination,_ " the oldest Centaur snarled rearing back.

Suppose that was one way of looking at Carrow, Ron chuckled to himself, a little concerned at the way his vision was starting to go grey around the edges…and why was everything going fuzzy like that. Fortunately the Centaurs didn't seem very interested in them any more…much more concerned with attacking Carrow…except the big guy could look after himself…probably even enjoy a jolly little punch up with a bunch of man-horses.

"Ron," a concerned voice said though it seemed to be coming from a way away. Greg's voice swam into view looking uncharacteristically worried, "did you know…arrow in your…leg…Ron?"

He looked down, the world swaying a moment with the motion. Well Bloody Throne, he stared at the arrow in consternation. When had that happened? He stared at the offending object which stuck out from his thigh at a jaunty angle, its fletching a cheerful vibrant shade of green. Best to get that out maybe, he thought about giving it a tug but someone who looked suspiciously like Uncle Sev wouldn't let him.

Mum was going to be so angry when she found out about this.

oOo

"Wait," Remus called, alarmed as Snape dodged in among the Centaurs towards the knot of students and the wavering Weasley lad. Where was his Gryffindor courage when he needed it? Steeling himself he followed ducking as he felt a short-sword brush the top of his hair.

"Need any help?" he asked as he collapsed to his knees by Snape who was already tending to the Weasley boy, the youngest one he thought, Ron…Ronald?

"You can shut up for starters," Snape growled, "and put pressure here." He indicated the gauze pad he'd placed over a slash wound to Weasley's shoulder.

"What about that?" Remus eyed the arrow currently sticking out of the boy's leg.

"Leave it," Snape said, "we've got more important things to worry about...like he won't bloody stop bleeding…and I bet some of the others are hurt too."

Remus did what he could, following Snape's instructions as closely as possible, attempting to stay calm despite the agitated Centaurs pawing at the ground behind him. Something primal inside him really objected, demanded he turned and faced the threat…he didn't really want to consider where those instincts came from, did his best to push them down, smother them…

"Wha…woah!" Sirius exclaimed beside him.

"Shut it Black," Snape glared up at the annoyance but Weasley groaned and shifted then pulling his attention away much to Remus's relief.

"Mooney," Sirius hissed, "look!"

Remus was on the verge of telling Sirius exactly what he thought of his interruption when he looked in the direction the annoying man was frantically pointing. His eyes widened in shock as he was just in time to see Carrow bowled over by a tree trunk the Headmaster had apparently summoned, though he was rapidly back on his feet in a superhuman blur of speed.

"You are _suspended_ ," Dumbledore's voice rang out.

Remus stared shocked until Snape hissed at him angrily. He hurriedly reapplied pressure to Weasley's injury.

"…cannot in all conscience allow you to continue teaching if this is what you encourage your students to do," Dumbledore sounded utterly furious. Remus peered between the legs of the milling centaurs, he could already see that behind Carrow's angry mask the gears of his mind were turning, busily working on turning this entire situation to his personal advantage.

"Merlin curse it," Snape growled, "I had two sickles on the bastard making it to the end of the year."


	8. Chapter 8

_Harry Potter is owned by J K Rowling while WH40K is the property of Games Workshop. The bits in between belong to me._

 _Thank you to my beta who checked diligently for cruelty to commas._

* * *

Author's Note

That didn't go as I had planned, so I apologise for this chapter being well over a month late. I think I intended for August 1st, but here we are a month and a half later still prodding this thing. I've been listening to Luetin09's WH40k lore videos as inspiration while I've been typing stuff in which had been pretty inspirational.

And also this was supposed to be the penultimate chapter. Now it's not. I had a massive bolt-out-of-the-blue stroke-of-inspiration type thing with regards to the climax and it is busily going exciting places. I can't wait to write it and post it

Thank you for your patience…and enjoy.

P.S.

Looking at the reviews there appears to be some sort of confusion with the name of Carrow's tank. Its official name is the "Spear of Retribution" but everyone calls it the "Gilded Lily" because of its ridiculous appearance, and to annoy Carrow. Because poking a psychopathic super-soldier is always a great idea.

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

 _There was a light breeze that was just cool enough to take the edge off the heat of the sun, bringing with it a faint metallic scent, the road crunching beneath his feet as he walked along._

 _Snape squinted against the light, there was something ahead on the road, some sort of muggle vehicle, though not a design he was at all familiar with. It was too boxy, and tall, with far too much chrome trim._

 _Maybe it was American he pondered as he started round it, though the driver definitely needed to brush up on their parking skills. Fancy leaving it skewed across the road like that. Not to mention the layer of dust and grit it seemed to have acquired, he thought as he casually trailed his fingers through, watching it puff up into the air._

 _Where was he? He turned slowly on the spot taking in the silent building. They were of an odd, almost art deco style but with far too many twiddly bits, little spires and gargoyles._

" _Hello," he called, the echoes of his voice fading into the silence._

 _Nothing._

 _Snape strained his ears. No human sounds at all, he couldn't hear any birds even, just the sound of the wind as it passed through the buildings._

 _Where was everybody? It appeared to be mid-day given the height of the sun; he squinted up, puzzled as to why the light was too yellow, the sky too green._

 _He kept walking further, the number of abandoned vehicles increasing, more cars, small lorries, their trailers' canvas stretched over metal hoops. There was even a wooden tram sitting silently on its tracks on what should have been a busy street lined with shops. But the windows were empty, the glass dirty and scratched almost as if it had been sand-blasted, the dust and grit everywhere, the metallic smell so strong now he could practically taste it._

" _Hello," he called again the stifling silence swallowing up his voice._

 _As he stepped around another of the dusty boxy cars something caught his foot. Just a little bundle of rags he saw as he looked down. Curious he crouched down pulling the rag free from the grit that lay thick on the road. There was something tangled up on it, something solid. If he just pulled…the fabric tore easily it was so rotten, a small skull tumbling out and rolling a little way._

 _A child's skull he saw, delicate and small as he lifted it gently with trembling hands. So young that they were just starting to get their first adult teeth. That would have made this child, what…six…seven?_

 _Carefully he wrapped the skull up with the remaining rag, placing it back with the rest of the child's bones, piling the grit up around it in an improvised cairn. It was the least he could do._

 _Not far away, half buried under the grit was an arm, still encased in what had once been a substantial jacket, the band of a time piece hanging limply around the wrist. An entire body reduced to little more than a hump in the road._

 _And beyond there was another…and another…_

 _And now he looked closely he could see the dead where ever he looked, half buried, slumped in vehicles, tattered remains of garments fluttering from broken windows._

 _He was standing in a giant mausoleum…_

Jerking awake, Snape slumped back on his bed only to find to his annoyance that the bed clothes had partially slithered to the floor at some point. "Merlin's bloody staff," he grunted as he tried to heave them back into place, finally giving it up as a bad job.

Stumbling to the bathroom he checked the time, half bloody four in the morning. As if he was going to get any more sleep after that awful dream. He couldn't wait till the end of June when they finally got shot of Carrow. He was seriously looking forward to catching up on his beauty sleep, not to mention he was certain Sprout was planning on some sort "We're finally rid of the bastard" party in the staff room to mark the occasion. If so, he was going to go to a muggle off-licence and buy some vodka. This was an occasion that was going to require shots.

Might as well go and do something since he was up. Maybe a walk would clear his head, as long as he didn't go too far into the Forest he should be all right.

The night was still as he slowly made his way down the lawn towards the lake, a paling of the horizon, a hint of the dawn to come, the air full of the scent of growing things, fresh and green, and full of life.

After the utter desolation of his Carrow induced dream it was an utter delight to be surrounded by so much _life_ , just going around its business.

And the sounds, the faint roar of the wind through the trees, the lapping of the water in among the reeds that bordered the margins of the lake, the rustling of things moving in the forest going about their business in safety since the DC lunatics were all safely tucked up in their beds at this early hour.

Somewhere ahead an owl called, and nearby something large moved. A branch snapped mere feet away, the sound like gun-shot in the darkness of the night.

Wand drawn Snape began to edge away. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. So he wasn't one of the little Defence Club twits but he doubted the Centaurs were feeling inclined to discriminate.

His back thumped into something solid and warm and covered in fur. He leapt away as if stung only to find himself surrounded. So much for being careful, he eyed the trio of Centaurs warily.

"I was merely walking back to the Castle," Snape said trying to disguise the fact he was desperately looking for an escape. "I will not trouble you any further."

The Centaur whom he'd backed into moved closer, a woman-horse he saw, carrying one of those nasty recurve bows, strings of bone beads her only adornment.

Swallowing nervously he eyed the other two warily. One he'd met before, Firenze he thought, the other one, tall and dark with white socks he was unfamiliar with.

"Potions Master Snape," the tall dark one boomed.

"I am," Snape reluctantly admitted.

The Centaur paced, obviously uncomfortable. "We wish to contact Him. He whose star had risen far too early. Will you aid us?"

Snape stared up at the Centaur in the gloom, mind busily trying to unscramble what the damn man-pony had just uttered. "He whose star has risen…"

"His touch is on you," the woman-horse said behind him, the recurve bow coming round to tap his left arm making him jerk back.

The Mark…"You mean Professor Schmidt," he said slowly, "you wish to contact Professor Schmidt."

The Centaurs stared at him expectantly.

"You could always owl him a letter," Snape suggested really wishing he had a nice solid tree to duck behind…or even climb up. He wasn't feeling picky.

They seemed to consider this for a moment, coming to some sort of silent agreement among themselves. "Yes," the tall dark one announced, "we will send our message by owl."

He fished in a leather pouch that hung around his waist pulling out a wax tablet. "You will retrieve an owl," he announced when Snape reached for the thing.

"And I will go with you," Firenze added.

Snape glared up at the bone-headed creature. "Fine," he snapped, "you do realise it's going to involve _stairs_."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

It had been super-amazing to spend so much time on the Moon, two entire weeks just setting stuff up and exploring and collecting samples of rocks and dust. But after all that excitement it was nice just getting to spend some time quietly in his lab catching up on what everybody else had been doing, the beginnings of the ship that would take him to Mars was starting to take shape. This one was being built with entirely Earth-sourced materials, but the next one wouldn't be…Bio-Mech were playing around with artificial nerves…and engineering were having fun looking at ways to use artificial gravity as a method of propulsion and were having quite a bit of success too…a Magical architect was wanting to consult with them over a novel use of wizarding space…

And this was before he'd even managed to touch the mountain of post that had somehow accumulated over the past fortnight and was now attempting to take over his desk…one of the guys from CERN catching up, wanting to run an interesting maths puzzle by him…something from a friend in America who was attempting to build his own space rocket, in his backyard…a witch in Spain he'd recently started a correspondence with talking about a difficult runic array they were working on for a new warding system…another friend wanting to share poetry…a small parcel which appeared to have been wrapped in animal hide held together with twine twisted from horse hair. Strange, he didn't remember ordering any books. It didn't rattle, wasn't particularly heavy and his senses weren't telling him it was a threat.

Carefully peeling back the skin revealed a wax tablet. Even more puzzled now he opened the bi-fold object to reveal a message inscribed into the wax, in proto-Greek of all things…something, something…intrusion of outsiders…something…battle…implore…rising star…What?

He really needed to brush up on his proto-Greek, so for the moment he put the tablet aside, reaching for the purple envelope that peeked out from the pile. No need to guess who this was from. He turned it over, taking in the address written in looping lime green handwriting, Headmaster Dumbledore no doubt wishing to share the latest trials and tribulations darling Xander had brought to his door.

And, oh yes, it was as bad as he expected, he squinted down at the letter, usual complaints about the increase in anxiety and mental fragility of the student body…bringing dangerous creatures into the school…forcing students to fight his dangerous creations…inciting students to attack the nearby Centaur village…wait…he grabbed the tablet flipping it open, poring over the proto-Greek again. There was definite mention of a battle, his brow furrowed as he attempted to dredge up everything he could remember of a language he had not spoken in thousands of years.

It was…the Centaurs themselves had sent him a petition, and since when did Centaurs do that, asking him to intervene with Xander (he whose star had wandered where it had no business being) with an added jab at himself (you whose star had no business rising in our lifetimes).

Centaurs, so rigid and inflexible in their interpretations of the future. The future hadn't happened yet (unless you were Xander), it was malleable as dough, veering off in unexpected directions at the slightest provocation. He should know.

But he would tell Xander to leave the children of Ixion alone.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"This is interesting," Dalziel nodded as he walked around the nearest lumpen vehicle that squatted on the floor of Workshop No.7 inspecting it closely, "but err…when do we get jet-bikes?"

Jet-bikes, Timothy mused. Just for once that actually sounded like…fun. Not that he was actually going to say anything. Just in case it got back to Carrow and he then decided to do something.

"When do we get to try them out," Wulfric muttered in his ear. Timothy glared at him, his ire seemingly bouncing off the werewolf's good mood.

Hopefully if they did make jet-bikes they would look a lot better than these misshapen excuses for vehicles. The nearest one, that Wulfric had been giving speculative looks, had fins jutting from its rear in a ragged fringe giving it the impression of an angry bee about to launch into flight.

Its friend hovering silently nearby looked more like an aero-dynamic shoe-box with smoothly angled sides and carefully rounded corners, more like some odd modernist sculpture than something you went to the shops in.

"You know," Dalziel gave a nervous laugh when his question was met with silence, "like the jet-bikes in that forest chase thingie in erm…erm..."

"Return of the Jedi," Wulfric helpfully supplied.

"Thanks. Yeah, Return of the Jedi. I've always wanted one ever since the movie came out," a happy distant smile spread over Dalziel's face.

The blonde engineering lady (who looked oddly familiar Timothy thought) refrained from rolling her eyes. "Of course we're working on jet-bikes," she said, "it's one of the first ideas the Star Wars nerds came up with…along with the light-sabre project of course." She shared an amused smirk with her colleague, an older lady with glasses, her silver grey hair in a pixie cut.

The older lady pushed her glasses up her nose as she inspected her data slat. "Yes, the jet-bike proto type still has a stabilisation issue that we're trying to get on top of. Under certain circumstances it has a nasty tendency to go into an uncontrolled spin, which I'm sure you'll all agree is less than ideal."

"Quite," Curtis agreed looking down at her data-slate, "I see we're not that far from the final roadworthy tests."

"We've got them both booked in next month. Should be interesting seeing what the DfT test driver makes of them."

Tuning out the conversation, Timothy sidled over to his possible ex-classmate, "Angela, right?"

"Andrea," she gave him a pained smile, "hello Timothy."

"Right, Andrea…you were in Ravenclaw," he said trying to ignore his growing sense of awkwardness.

"I was, and the year behind you too," Andrea gave him a tight smile, "after I left I had so many problems getting employment. Muggle-born, you know," she shrugged with a bitter smile.

Didn't they all, Timothy nodded wincing at his own memories of trying to find some form of work after leaving Hogwarts, the trudging round applying knowing he'd never hear back, the out-right rejections, the humiliation of cleaning toilets at the Ministry .

"Yeah," Andrea said, "so I washed my hands of the magical world. I caught up on my muggle education, went to University, did my Masters in Engineering…and then ended up here, sort of back where I started despite my best efforts. So what happened to your eye?"

"I err…had an accident and erm…" Timothy shuffled mentally around the question not quite sure what to tell her that wouldn't be met with suspicion…or disapproval from Carrow. His data-slate chimed that moment with an incoming message and he thumbed it open, glad of the distraction, a chill clawing up his spine as he read.

"Wulfric," he shouted, the other man popping up from where he had been peering into the hover-car's interior talking specifications with Roberts and Dalziel, "incident in Knockturn. We need to go _now_."

"What about weapons, what about the others?" Wulfric asked as he jogged over.

"Not enough time, we'll just have to deal with what we've got," Timothy shouted over his shoulder as he sprinted for the exit.

oOo

The lunatic seemingly bobbed up from nowhere, clad in stained and shabby roads, a crude mask, little more than a sack with holes cut for the eyes disguising his appearance, wand raised, firing off curses every which way.

"Poor man's Death Eaters," Timothy growled unimpressed as he ducked, the spell-fire whizzing past his head to splash against the window of the muggle delicatessen behind him. Apparently the owners had invested in some decent wards as the glass held even as it rippled, a rainbow slick of colours spreading out across its surface.

Ignoring Wulfric's protests Timothy surged forward crashing into the idiot, catching him as hard as he could in the stomach. Even as he doubled over, the man tried to escape scrabbling sideways across the cobbled street but he followed catching him hard in the neck, watching dispassionately as the would-be terrorist slumped into the gutter.

Stepping over the idiot, he ran towards the screaming.

It was a stone building on the corner, maybe it had been an inn at some point, but its current owners had turned it into a bicycle shop catering to both muggleborn and pure-bloods…and now it was on fire, another masked figure standing in the doorway pouring flames with the use of his wand while his friends watching his back keeping the Aurors at bay.

And through the flames he could see panicked figures running back and forth, trapped in the burning building…gathering himself, unheeding of Wulfric's cries for him to stop, he apparated…reappearing with a thunderous crack just behind the fire-wielding thug, lunging toward him, grabbing him even as the masked man began to turn, swearing up a storm as he tried to get his wand hand round, but he'd already grabbed it, slamming the man back into the stonework of the doorway, heedless of the heat that poured from the doorway,

The man tried to push away but he grabbed his head slamming it into the stonework with a sickening crack, but he was still moving still trying to turn, getting his hands round to scrabble at his face, the eye-patch pulling away at some point though Timothy barely noticed as he grabbed at the man's head, slamming it into the stone-work over and over again.

There were hands grabbing him backwards now and he tried to resist their interference, until he was grabbed and physically slammed into the wall.

"Timothy…Tim," Wulfric was shouting in his face.

"Wha…what?" he struggled to get out, struggled to get away from the wall but Wulfric had him firmly pinned in place.

"You can stop now," Wulfric said, face torn between anger and concern, "it's over."

Timothy blinked, looking around. To his surprise the masked idiots who'd been fighting the Aurors were all now on the ground, lying or sitting, trussed up in conjured rope. A grim looking Auror stood over them, his colleague holding a veritable bouquet of confiscated wands in her hand.

The stinging scent of burning filled the air, but he could no longer feel the heat of the fire, curious he looked over to see smoke still drifting from the doorway of the bicycle shop, and on the stone door-jam a dark stain glistening in the sunlight, slowly oozing its way to the ground.

"Oh," he said softly his knees really not cooperating. Fortunately Wulfric caught him. "Did you miss breakfast again," the werewolf grumbled, "honestly, you're an absolute disaster."

oOo

It was always interesting how pulling off their masks made someone out to terrorise shrink into insignificance. The Knockturn bottom-scraping currently chained to the interrogation table was a scrawny pasty scrap of humanity, face gaunt and scabby from laudanum use, eyes desperately darting around the room looking for a non-existent escape route.

Not a chance, sunshine, Timothy thought as he readjusted the makeshift bandana he'd transfigured out of bandage to cover the ruined remains of his right eye-socket as he stood with several of the senior members of the Aurors at the back of the room.

"Martin Chumbly," Madam Bones said as she took a seat, dumping a fat looking folder down onto the table that she began looking through, "thirty-six, muggle-born. Graduated Hogwarts in 1978. Hufflepuff," she sneered across the table.

Chumbly flinched.

Ah yes, the famous Hufflepuff unity. Betray the Hufflepuff code, betray every Hufflepuff to eternity. Chumbly was going to spend the rest of his life watching his back.

"You are very lucky, Mr Chumbly, that no one was killed during this incident," Bones held up a report from St Mungo's, "nor suffered life-threatening injuries despite your best efforts. If they had we would be having a very different conversation…"

The questioning began in earnest. Who were his compatriots? Who was in charge of the attack? Who planned it? What was his role in the attack? What were the roles of the others? Had he been involved in the planning? Had he scouted that area of Knockturn out in preparation…several people had reported seeing someone who met his description in the week leading up to the attack…

Chumbly slumped further and further down in his seat, sullen and unhelpful occasionally muttering when prodded for an answer, his legs jigging uncontrollably as he fidgeted.

"I'm still curious, Mr Chumbly," Bones gave her notes a casual shuffle, "you're a muggle-born, the people you attacked were for the most part muggle-born. Why?"

Sneering, Chumbly looked up, his fingers drumming away on his jigging knee. "Getting too big for their boots ain't they," he smirked, "getting poncy jobs, throwing their money around. They deserved it…how else are we going to keep recruiting for the gang. Need them kicked down…need them to have the pure-blood boot across the back of their neck, pressing them into the dirt where they belong," he grinned showing off his mangled yellowing teeth.

Bones stared at him silently for a moment. "Didn't think about getting an honest job yourself then?"

He stared at her uncomprehending.

Bones sighed. "Any other questions?" she asked over her shoulder.

"I have one," Timothy stepped forward when the Senior Aurors present remained silent. Pulling out his data slate he prodded it awake pulling up the relevant image file.

"Do you recognise this?" he turned the devise so Chumbly could see, the man leaning forward to stare suspiciously at the photograph of a hand displaying a tattoo on the webbing between thumb and forefinger, the symbol of Saturn.

"Sometimes the member of this…group have this symbol etched on their forearms or even behind their ears," Timothy elaborated, "do you know them?"

Chumbly squinted at the image dully, recognition slowly dawning. He recoiled violently, nearly falling from his chair. "I ain't working for them, "he ranted, "I ain't _nothing_ to do with them. I know I'm bad, but them, they're… _she's_ madder than a duck's fart."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"There must be something we can do," Ron said as they waited for the stairs to shift in their favour, "she's going to drive herself into the ground at this rate. I mean I know we've got the OWLs in a few weeks and we're all revising hard, but the way she's doing it, living in the library like that…and all the trouble we're in on top of it…"

The others shifted uncomfortably as the stairs ground into place. "I don't think Ripper's ever been in this much trouble before," Neville agreed as he meandered along hands in his pockets, "I grew up with disappointed adults, so…" he shrugged. "Still think it's a record for the number of howlers in a week though."

And the less said about that the better, Ron winced at the memories of Mum's shouting and the twins trying to give him a gilded arrow as a congratulatory prize on having Mum angrier at him than them, or it could just have been well done for having been shot by a Centaur. It hadn't been quite clear.

"Yeah…If she goes on like this she could burn herself out and completely fail her exams," Greg nodded. "Think how bad she'd be if that happened."

The others looked at him, utterly appalled.

"That…doesn't bear thinking about actually," Millie said slowly as they made their way down the stairs scattering a group of firsties racing back to the common room. "We need to do something."

"Yeah," Greg nodded deep in thought, "but we're going to have to be careful…"

They sidled past a glaring Professor McGonagall

"Don't think it would go down well if we approached McGonagall and asked her to give Hermione a little pep talk at all…from either of them," Greg muttered once he considered them at a safe distance, "bet Ripper won't like it if we drag her to Pomfrey either."

No, definitely not a good idea, Ron chewed at his lip, dark thoughts swirling as his brain happily supplied him with ever worsening scenarios of Hermione breaking down, melting down, going on a wild killing spree, killing herself…

Below on the stairs appeared the familiar figure of Percy, his flaming red hair contrasting sharply with his sober grey robes. Beside him was the tall, dark and intimidating figure of Faulkes looking like a military vampire in his peaked cap and great-coat. Trailing them was Wulfric Deer, who as usual was smiling to himself. Had nobody thought to tell him just how creepy that was?

Ron's mood lifted a little until Percy caught sight of him, eyes narrowing in a glare to rival Mum's.

"Hey Perce," he gave his older brother a worried smile.

Percy's glare intensified. "Centaurs," he growled.

Ron shuffled awkwardly avoiding his brother's gaze. "Aw, c'mon Perce."

"Centaurs, Ron. You tried attacking _centaurs_ ," Percy huffed, "that's actually worse than anything the Twins have ever managed, and they were _trying_."

"Where's Granger?" Faulkes suddenly asked.

Ron flinched under his steely gaze. "The library," he shuffled his feet looking down at his boots, "we're err….actually I don't think she's doing too well. She's never been in trouble like this before and erm…I'm…we're really worried about her. She's been missing meals even."

Percy gave a sarcastic huff.

"I'll talk to her," Faulkes said.

A relieved smile spread across Ron's face. "You will? That'd be brilliant Sir."

"And as for you lot…"

Ice gripped Ron's insides.

"…what were you thinking? You're all intelligent…and normally sensible. What in Merlin's name made you think just mindlessly following one of Carrow's suggestions was a good idea?"

oOo

"If I hear another thing about bloody accounts I'm going to throw myself out the window," Wulfric muttered.

Not quietly enough it seemed as Carrow and Percy fell silent in their intense discussion of the financial state of Aquila Ind. at that moment, Percy glaring at the werewolf, obviously offended.

"Let's face it," Wulfric smirked, "if Percy hadn't been born a wizard he would have been an accountant."

"Gentlemen, if we could get back on track," Timothy interrupted determined to stop any fighting before it could begin, "the current situation in the Wizengamot." He massaged the scared tissue that covered his right eye socket as he tried to ease his growing headache. The office was small, and rather crowded, and warm, and while Carrow was fastidious in his personal hygiene he did have a rather unique body odour.

The room lapsed back into its stultifying fug as he recounted his latest experiences in the Ministry…the slowly increasing support for the educational reform bill…The recent unrest in Knockturn and the mixed reactions it had caused amongst Magical Britain's political elite…the continuing planning into making Godric's Hollow's special law enforcement a reality…Minister Fudge's increasing slide into alcoholism…

"With regards to the new Arbites…law enforcement building," Carrow smiled at him sending a chill down his spine. "I have made a number of plans that would be suitable," the large man rifled through the piles of books, scrolls and parchment that littered his desk, stuffed around the brass and wood bulk of his computer terminal.

"Ah…here," he triumphantly pulled several long rolls of parchment free, thrusting them towards Timothy who took them reluctantly.

"Sir, we're still very much in the process of purchasing a suitable plot of land," Timothy said eyeing the scrolls warily, curious despite himself as to what horrors Carrow's twisted mind had come up with.

Carrow brushed the comment off as he began fiddling with his terminal.

"Are we done?" Wulfric mouthed. Timothy glared at him. "Just need to ask a few questions," he signed back.

Wulfric heaved a put up-on sigh following Percy as he pushed his way out of the small office into the classroom beyond, braving the attentions of Artemis who last seen had been sprawled across the teacher's desk basking in a patch of sunshine.

Which just left him and Carrow in the crowded office.

"Are you returning to the Lodge?" Timothy asked. "Since you've been fired," he muttered under his breath.

Carrow blinked at him, considering a moment. "I suppose," he rumbled, "it makes no sense for me to linger here…and it would certainly make _this_ simpler," he indicated the computer screen.

"There are still several locations that were flagged up from the retrieved data from the office raid at the New Year…"

Timothy sidled closer squinting at the crude map the screen displayed.

"…there is this one here…on the outskirts of Birmingham…and then also this one here…near Nottingham. From initial investigation of the locations they are both located on non-magical industrial estates."

"The Nottingham one," Timothy frowned, "I think that one came up in the financial records from the lab raid. I'd have to double check with Percy but…why the hell did you get yourself sacked?" he glared at Carrow. "Honestly. You had little more than a month to go, but sending children after…"

"You trouble yourself too much Timothy," Carrow said seemingly quite unconcerned, "when I initially arrived in this time, this place I investigated the forest looking for anything of a dangerous nature. Those that I found I dealt with personally. Nothing at all major," he gave what he obviously thought was a reassuring smile.

Timothy wanted to slap him.

"The more dangerous of the creatures, the Acromantula, the Dire Wolves, their populations have now been winnowed away to an acceptable level. That just left the Centaurs, well within the capabilities of the Defence Club I thought."

Timothy clenched his teeth, his frustration building in the face of Carrow's unassailable belief that he was utterly right, completely reasonable.

"Centaurs are categorised as beasts after all," Carrow carried on, "and quite obviously they are a potential threat to Humanity, a minor one of course, that needs to be neutralised."

"They wanted to be classified as Beasts," Timothy snapped, "and they also…"

A bang erupted from the Defence class room as something heavy fell over, quickly followed by Wulfric's laughter and a muffled comment from Percy.

Fuming, Timothy wrenched the office door open only to find the desks in disarray. Artemis had awoken from her nap and Wulfric was now levitating her toy, a thick hoop of plaited sisal rope, just out of her reach making it spin and bob and leap in the air, Artemis closely following its every move.

With a surge of muscle she launched herself upward her jaws clamping around the rope as her enormous paws came up grasping at air. Gracefully she landed back on the floor dropping the rope, looking up at Wulfric expectantly.

"Again huh," Wulfric laughed as he flicked his wand sending the giant tiger sized toy across the floor, Artemis in hot pursuit.

At least someone was happy, Timothy smiled despite himself.

oOo

She felt as if the world was ending. Even in the quiet of the library Hermione couldn't escape the crushing weight of everything that had happened, the horror at realising she'd nearly got Ron killed, poor Carrow fired from his job (though he kept denying it was her fault, it was though, if she hadn't…), all the angry howlers her friends had received one after the other over the span of a week during breakfast in the Great Hall, the horrible angry and disappointed letter "we thought you were better than this" letter from her parents…and on top of all that the desperate rush to get as much revision in before the OWL exams began next week, but she couldn't concentrate, the normally well behaved words on the page dancing and shifting when she tried to settle down with her notes. She was at her wits end, didn't know what to do, who to turn to…

The chair beside her was abruptly jerked from its place, someone tall plonking themselves down next to her. Ready for the stream of accusations, the glares, she turned ready to defend herself only to find Faulks sitting there concern in his one remaining eye.

The angry retort died on her lips, "err…hey," she muttered ducking round staring down at her notes miserably.

"How are you," Timothy asked, "and if you say you're okay I'll know you're lying."

Hermione gave him a half-hearted glare, "I…don't know," she shrugged helplessly staring down at her hands.

They lapsed into silence then the soft quiet of the library enveloping them as students padded among the shelves, the soft crinkle of turning pages, the scratching of quills on parchment…

"I know this all seems devastating now, insurmountable even," Timothy said, "but nobody died…and except for Ron no one, not even the Centaurs, had any serious injuries…and Ron is already back on his feet."

Hermione cringed at the mention of Ron, her guilt rising in a huge tidal wave that threatened to drown her.

"In fact, I met Ron on the way up to Carrow's office," Timothy continued seemingly unaware of her turmoil, "he's very worried about you. So are the others. Ron particularly is frightened you might do something…drastic. He asked if we'd come and talk to you."

"I nearly got him killed," Hermione whispered, her hands shaking, "nearly got them killed. It was my idea…I led them there…"

"It was Carrow's idea," Timothy interrupted with a sigh, "it was _his_ idea that you attempted to carry out. Fortunately without him actually involved, other-wise we'd be looking at an absolute bloodbath right now...and probably a Ministry investigation."

The shaking only got worse. Why wouldn't the shaking stop? She brought her hands up to her face only to find it damp with tears, everything falling away from her control. When a strong arm pulled her against a solid chest all she could do was cling on and weep, riding out the waves of misery until they finally receded to a dull background rumble.

Timothy offered her a conjured tissue which she gladly accepted putting her dignity back together as best she could. "Have you ever…" she began to ask.

"What? Cried my eyes out?" Timothy said, "Merlin yes. With Carrow around, it's either that or hit the bottle, and honestly regardless of what my…masculinity might have to say about it, crying is a hell of a lot safer than alcohol with Carrow around." He smiled slightly at her disbelieving expression. "Tears of frustration mainly. You've got to always remember with Carrow he really doesn't think like us…at all."

"It's not just a cultural thing is it," Hermione said as she wrung the tissue between her fingers, "I always thought the religion he follows and the whole _death to the enemies of humanity_ spiel he spouts…"

"No," Timothy shook his head, "though they're a big part of it. I've noticed sometimes…it's like he's been programmed to think like that. That even if you managed to strip away the cultural xenophobia and the religious extremism and intolerance he would still need to fight anything and everything he saw as a potential threat to the human race."

Was it possible, Hermione considered, she'd always thought brain-washing to be unscientific, unprovable…but in the far future…

"Which of course means when Carrow suggests to a group of teenagers that they should go and kill Centaurs," Timothy was staring off into the distance, "he doesn't just think he's being completely reasonable, he also thinks his idea is completely and utterly morally correct."

Hermione swallowed hard, the painful lump in her throat refusing to budge.

"Promise me you'll think hard next time Carrow makes one of his little suggestions," Timothy was looking at her intently now, utterly serious.

She nodded. "Pinky promise," she held up a crooked finger.

Timothy actually smiled then the right side of his face twisting oddly as he crooked his little finger through hers. "Pinky promise," he said.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"What is that noise?" Caroline demanded as they sidled away from the ugly white van the surveillance team had arrived in now parked in a back street somewhere in Birmingham.

Annie paused for a moment in the shadow of a bus-shelter listening carefully to the throbbing pounding beat that filled the air. "Sounds like someone's having a party…but this should just be industrial stuff, no pubs or clubs, shouldn't really be anyone here at this hour…"

"So something not entirely normal then," Caroline offered.

"Depends on what you mean by not normal, not Carrow not-normal," Annie said taking a short running leap at the security fence easily clearing it, disappearing into the shadows beyond.

Caroline followed her with a sigh. Hopefully whatever this was it wasn't going to get in their way of checking this latest location out and bugging it to high heck. Certainly beat being stuck in a school full of highly excitable magical children.

She trotted silently after Annie round a brick building, then up to a flat roof shinning up a complex of pipes onto a larger sloped roof. They had a view of the entire area, the location of the impromptu party now visible, the multicoloured flashing lights flickering in time to the pounding music so loud that it was more felt than heard even at this distance.

"That looks like fun," Annie said perching on the edge of the roof watching intently, "isn't that near our target building?"

Caroline counted rooflines comparing them to the map on her data-slate. "Two buildings down and across from where we're going," she said. "Could be a bit of a problem."

"Or it could work to our advantage," Annie smirked.

She took off darting across the roof with inhuman speed, Caroline in her wake. They leapt easily across the gap to the next roof sprinting across it to the next gap, another alley shadowy and dark, skips lurking in its gloom.

The pounding was overwhelming now and she almost didn't hear the crackle of her radio, Annie signalling that they were in place and about to install the surveillance cameras and other devices.

Opening a pouch on her belt she pulled out one of the cameras. Peeling off the protective film from the self-adhesive patch she carefully placed it along the gutter where it would have an optimal view of the front of the target building, an anonymous looking brick and steel frame industrial building that looked like it had been built during a particularly mediocre part of the seventies. (She should know, she'd been there.)

Barely the size of a golf ball the camera was weather proof, highly sensitive even at low light levels. It was also designed to self-destruct after six months, quietly disintegrating into crystalline gravel that hopefully would go unnoticed.

Along with the half-dozen cameras there were also listening devices as well as little cubes inscribed with runes that she'd been assured would detect levels of magical use. Apparently they were a bit on the experimental side and the R&D weirdoes wanted to give them a field test.

"Good luck to them," she grumbled to herself as she stuck one behind a drain pipe in the unit next to the target building, her head beginning to throb with the pounding noise and flashing coloured lights. Shouldn't be a lick of magic in this area, given it was about as muggle as you could get.

Something moved in the shadows below and she froze. Probably a reveller from the illegal party having a crafty piss…but it moved again its shadowy form subtly wrong, its back hunched and spined, its head elongated. And then it looked straight up at her, eyes gleaming like silver lamps in the darkness.

Her back prickled, goose bumps rising as she tried to keep exactly still lest this predator take notice of her. Its back hunched further as it prowled closer eyes staring up at her curiously. Dare she run? Slowly, ever so slowly she inched away from the edge of the roof.

A police van came to a screeching halt at the front of the building, its occupants piling out in a rush as they made towards the illegal party.

The creature receded into the shadows, its eyes turning away from her as it watched the hubbub suddenly wary. Seeing her opportunity Caroline was up and sprinting away across the roof determined to put as much distance between her and it as she could manage.

"Done all ready? I was thinking, you know the new girl…I wish she'd choose a name, that was so confusing last night…have you noticed the scars on her arms, they're a bit like Natasha's and…are you all right?" Annie looked up from placing her last camera her expression turning concerned. Caroline nodded her head feeling shaken to the core her skin still crawling from the creature's gaze.

"No, I…there was a _thing_ in that alley," she hissed, "like a Carrow worthy thing…it saw me…but then the police arrived…" she shrugged trying to shake off her discomfort.

The pounding music suddenly came to an abrupt halt the air full of distant angry shouts and screams, the lights still flashing as more police arrived to break up the illegal rave.

"Finally," Annie muttered. "So we've got the right place then."

Caroline nodded, "if that thing was anything to go by I'd say that was a very likely yes…thought we haven't done location secundus yet. Who knows what's stashed there."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The power-armour loomed on its supporting frame, ugly and brutal, its very presence carrying a certain menace, the God-Emperor thought as he circled it eyeing it critically from all angles.

It was crude compared to Xander's suit so he had done his best to approximate the same sort of functionality with what he had available to him rather than produce an exact copy. There had been all sorts of compromises and technological leaps they had been forced to make. Certainly those he had worked with were delighted with the slew of patents and scientific papers this one project had produced.

So many challenges. They had no way to make ceramite, for instance, which had turned into a major the material that made up the bulk of the suit's armour was an amalgam of Kevlar and an alchemical transmutation of iron. It had passed all the tests they had been able to devise, but how well it fared under battlefield conditions they had yet to see.

And then there was the problem with the servos in the joints, the artificial muscle fibres that increased the power of the wearer's every movement, the filtration system in the helmet, the heads-up display in the helmet as well as the night vision function, the moisture and waste recycling, ensuring the entire thing was self-contained with absolutely no leaks what so ever.

Harder than it seemed. Overcoming his lack of the black carapace that Xander possessed, so unless he underwent that particular physical modification in the future he would never be able to interface with his suit in such a direct and intuitive way.

Miniaturising the pocket fusion drive even further to power it all had been a doddle in comparison.

At the moment he'd left the suit unpainted, its natural silver colouration gleaming dully under the artificial light of the workshop. He was sure Xander had got very definite opinions on what his armour should look like and he was determined to avoid every single one of them especially if it involved gilding.

But what to have instead? It was as if the Universe held its breath waiting for his decision. He had a few ideas but for the moment…yeah, he was going to put it off a little longer maybe.

And now he got to the fun bit. Time to test it out, he smiled to himself.

Clad in just a body-glove he allowed the specially tasked servitors to dress him, each piece of armour clicking into place, weighing his body down until the power-pack was slid into place automatically activating, the weight suddenly disappearing leaving him feeling as light as air, his vision obscured momentarily as the helmet was placed on, the oxygen mask sucking into place automatically as targeting data flickered to life before his eyes.

Dismissing the servitors, he took a few clumsy steps his confidence growing as he paced around the workshop he'd temporarily taken over for this project. He felt a little clumsy at first but that soon disappeared, his tread lightening as he grew in confidence.

Pacing from the doors back to the pin-board again the suit felt almost natural now. He needed a better test of its functionality, something a little more taxing. Maybe if he went to the training hall. He could try it out with the heavier duty combat servitors. That could be fun, he grinned to himself as he padded towards the doors coming to a grinding halt.

Ah yes, his first challenge, normal person sized doors.

oOo

The pole-axe felt wonderful in his hands, solid and heavy, built for violence with its spiked head, the God-Emperor smirked in anticipation as he strode into the middle of the training pit giving his weapon a few experimental spins and swipes. Perfect for what he wanted.

With a thought he let loose the combat servitors encouraging them to do their worst. The artificial beings prowled cautiously out of their enclosures, scenting the air delicately, sensing his presence.

The two largest lunged at him, metal razor teeth bared in a snarl. But he was no longer there, the pole-axe whipping round, the spiked head catching one in the cranium with a nasty crunch temporarily dropping it to the floor. The other landed in a skid of sand whipping round as fast as it could with an outraged snarl, already launching another attack that he parried with the end of the pole-axe, whipping the bladed side of the head round, missing, striking out with the spiked side, catching it in the shoulder as it tried to fasten teeth in his armour protected arm, sliding off with a teeth wrenching shriek.

Beyond, the felled servitor struggled back to its feet, snarling and drooling as it staggered towards him, its leaping attack sloppy and uncoordinated. Lazily he flicked it away sending it crashing into the wall of the training pit where it fell to the floor twitching fitfully.

Then one of the smaller ones threw itself at its back, managing to cling on to the power-pack even as he tried to shake it off. Clever, he laughed to himself as he slammed back against the pit's wall, crushing the thing even as its sibling and the last large servitor came at his front.

The fighting turned into a blur of motion, snapping teeth, sweat, struggle, his blood racing through his veins as his heart pounded, feeling more alive, in the moment than he had down in years, decades possibly. He swung the pole-axe round in a skull crushing blow only to find himself the only one standing, the combat servitors now spread across the training pit in crumpled silent heaps, their torsos and skulls crushed, their limbs broken.

Reaching up he removed his helmet, taking in the carnage, inspecting what he could of his armour. It appeared to have fared well.

"I think they're quite dead," a voice floated down to him sounding more than a little strained.

Looking up he found one of the staff from engineering watching him warily, her face pale, eyes wide and frightened behind her glasses.

"Oh…ah, just trying out my new armour," he gave her a sheepish smile, trying to be reassuring. "Think I might have got a bit carried away. Anything I can help you with?"

"Oh…yes," she startled, quickly pulling herself together as she pulled herself together, "er yes…we were wanting your opinion on the progress of the Mars ships."

"Of course," he bounced round eagerly, repairing the servitors with a lazy wave of his hand as he climbed out of the training pit, accepting the offered data-slate. He barely noticed her wide-eyed stare as the parts of the servitors pulled themselves together, limbs becoming whole, tissue knitting back together, the artificial creatures groggily pulling themselves to their feet prowling around the pit aimlessly.

oOo

The Mars ship loomed over them, her stark angular lines contrasting sharply with the clinical white of the hanger. Around and over her the workers swarmed, seeing to her every need, bringing her ever closer to completion.

Though she was a similar length to a jumbo-jet she was broader and taller, a boxy angular slab with a double prow bristling with sensors, her wings stubby approximations that looked like an afterthought. She looked like a strange amalgamation between an ocean going ship and an aircraft, the possibility that she would take to the skies more theoretical than possible.

Following the engineering lady the God-Emperor strolled across the hanger floor towards the rear hatch, up a temporary ramp and into the main hold doing his best all the while to ignore the curious and even fearful stares.

The interior of the ship was in a similar state to the exterior, well into its finally fitting, workers everywhere, installing things, doing mysterious things with wiring in the ship walls, testing things, moving equipment past on trolleys…

The engineering lady paused by a doorway that promised to lead to the engine room pulling out her data-slate fiddling with it a moment. He really needed to have a look round, it all looked so exciting, but not while wearing this armour.

"We've been considering supplies for the Mars Mission," she said as she scrolled through a list of files on the data-slate screen tapping a tiny representation of a folder. "It's such a shame we hadn't got the time or resources to build two. It would have made life so much easier if we'd got one ship to set things up on Mars while the other one was used to fetch the item you wish to retrieve."

She thrust the data slate at him. He took it delicately in one enormous armoured hand giving it a cursory glance, clumsily down scrolling, another thing to consider with his armour.

"Looks all in order, maybe more hydroponics would be a good idea, make sure the food supply is as secure as we can make it, same for water recycling too…" he nodded, "An important question…any thoughts on names, and what colour should she be?"

The engineering lady rolled her eyes at him hiding her smile. "Anything but black and gold," she grimaced, "if I see another perfectly decent vehicle plastered with gilded cherubs I refuse to be responsible for my actions."

He considered the problem a moment. "How about red? She's going to Mars after all."

Engineering lady considered it for a moment, her smile broadening, turning devious even. "Yes, yes," she nodded seeming gleeful, "a nice bright pillar-box red."

The God-Emperor nearly laughed at the thought of Carrow's reaction.

"And names…we need to consider names," he said.

"Enterprise," they both said at the same time.

"It's been a very popular choice," Engineering lady said, "people keep sidling up to me and suggesting it…apart from that annoying idiot from IT who's been campaigning for _Planey McPlane-face_ but we've been ignoring him."

"There's always one isn't there," the God-Emperor said. _Enterprise_ , it would be a good name for her, going as she was to places where humanity had never before set foot.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The floating platform loaded with boxes filled with the contents of Carrow's office sedately backed up to the muggle lorry that currently occupied the turning circle in front of Hogwarts main entrance as Carrow's people went about packing up the man's equipment, storing it in the ugly boxy vehicle.

It really was one of the most incongruous things Dumbledore had seen in his life. Something so un-magical, so obviously muggle and seeing it so close to a building that practically oozed magic from its very stones…very curious.

The Vampire Coven that he had been very quietly not telling the School Governors about, had vacated their lodgings in the Dungeons a few days ago, taking Artemis with them. It had been rather strange the last few mornings not seeing the graceful creature romping across the lawn closely followed by the dark figure of Carrow. He'd rather missed it if he was being honest…not that he'd ever tell Carrow that.

Talk about the Devil. Carrow appeared then from the shadows of the entrance hall, striding down the steps into the sunshine, clad in his enormous armour dark cloak billowing around him, the skulls of his chatelaine clattering gently as he walked.

Dumbledore frowned at the revolting trophies, yellowing skulls wrapped in chain, covered in heavy gothic text. He'd never asked who they had been or why Carrow had treated their skulls in such a manner. It seemed…indelicate.

"Headmaster," the monster boomed as he approached the buzzing of his armour setting Dumbledore's teeth on edge.

"Such a shame you're leaving us early," Dumbledore could barely hide his gleeful smile, "it has certainly been an interesting experience having you as part of the faculty."

Carrow inclined his head politely, "it has certainly been an interesting experience…though I have come to the conclusion that my talents lie other than the field of educating those so young."

Dumbledore hummed; it wasn't so much Carrow's ability to teach, it was more his methods that were the issue. Very few eleven year olds aspired to be hardened killers, thank Merlin. "So what are you planning to do with all your free time now" he asked more out of politeness.

Carrow tilted his head his expression almost inquisitive (never a good sign). "This afternoon there is a site of special interest that I will be investigating. Your people…" the giant sidled closer with an expression he obviously thought was a smile, "I know it's with very little warning but are a few of them available?"

"Well I'd have to…" Dumbledore began, but Carrow was nodding his smile predatory.

"I quite understand, they have other roles to play…but you're here," Carrow's smile became even more shark like.

"I'm not sure…" Dumbledore suddenly became aware of just how close the awful man was. But before he could back away or even reach for his wand Carrow had grabbed him and pulled him somewhere different, a strange nightmare place, and all he could do was hang on for fear of being lost in the maelstrom that surrounded him.

oOo

He gasped and staggered, almost falling as they re-entered something that resembled normalcy. He squinted down at the cracked tarmac and weeds, so terribly muggle. Where in Merlin's name where they, he looked around frantically taking in the ugly rectangular buildings that squatted on the landscape as far as he could see, the place utterly deserted except for…

"What are you doing?" Timothy Faulks growled up at Carrow who was looking round quite unconcerned.

"The wards have been put in place, yes?" the giant said.

Timothy grimaced. "Yes, the surveillance team did their job, so we've got the no-notice wards up, but…"

"Excellent," Carrow said suddenly whirling round stooping until he was almost nose to nose with Dumbledore. "You always offer the assistance of others," Carrow smiled through barred teeth.

Dumbledore tried to back away from the teeth-smarting buzz of the armour, the smell of gunpowder, polish and something almost animal. Unfortunately his feet refused to cooperate rooting him to the spot.

"Here's your chance to prove your capabilities," Carrow's attempt at a smile morphed into a smirk that sent shivers down his spine.

"I cannot abide those who refuse do their own dirty work," Carrow said as he straightened up. "Follow me," he commanded striding off among the blocky buildings.

"You don't have to," Faulkes muttered to him, "I'll understand if you want to leave."

Dumbledore watched the giant's retreating back his annoyance rising at Carrow's thinly veiled accusation. "No. I'm not as spry as I once was but my magic is as strong as ever." He held up his wand with a grim smile. "Shall we?"

oOo

Carrow seemed to choose one of the ugly muggle buildings at random, walking down its side to a large metal shutter. To Dumbledore's eyes the ugly thing seemed virtually identical to its neighbours but Carrow seemed satisfied with his choice.

Faulkes and his trio of people gathered nearby in the sort of pre-ordained patterns he'd once seen the Aurors use when storming a building. They looked suitably intimidating in their dark uniforms, a bit like the Defence Club now he thought about it, but their weapons were larger and more dangerous looking.

What he was supposed to be doing he wasn't entirely sure and so he waited nearby pondering the rectangular markings someone had carefully painted on the ground nearby in white, just a row of them. Why hadn't they used the entire space? It would've made a much more satisfying pattern.

"You're with me," a hand grabbed his elbow pulling him closer to the building and into a shrubby plant that was pushing its way through a crack in the concrete right next to the building. The short man (Chuddy, Dumbledore thought his name was, the introductions from Faulks had been rather brief) glared up at him, clearly unhappy. "Stick by me," he growled dark moustache bristling, "and don't wander off. When I move, you move. Got it?"

Dumbledore nodded reluctantly. Chuddy huffed to himself but turned back to the activities of Carrow by the metal shutter.

The giant man had shoved his fingers underneath the shutter with little effort, and with a heave and an agonising squeal of protesting machinery he pulled the shutter upwards, deforming it into a buckled arch. Ducking underneath it, he disappeared into the shadowy space beyond.

Dumbledore found himself dragged along by Chuddy as Faulks and the trio of ladies quickly followed. He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting, one of Carrow's horrific monsters maybe. The large empty space he found himself in not so much, and yet there was something there, on the edge of perception, shadowy figures he could just glimpse out of the corners of his eyes as he looked around at the empty walls, cracked concrete floor, windblown rubbish drifted into little piles in the corners and by the doorway to the little office that was poked into a corner. All of this lit only by what daylight managed to filter through the discoloured skylights above, and of course the opened shutter.

He pulled his glasses off, cleaning the lenses on the cuff of his robe. It could just be a mote of dust, he could hope. But no, when he put them back on the darting shadows were still there, and what's more it was obvious that both Carrow and Faulks had noticed something off too, their wariness causing the muggle soldiers to tense, their faces grim as they held their blocky weapons ready.

Carrow was pacing now, delicate and cat-like despite the bulky armour, drawing his sword as he stalked, the blade beginning to crackle with blue fire.

Fascinated, wondering what Carrow could have possibly spotted Dumbledore sidled closer. "Back now," Chuddy shoved an arm roughly in front of his chest, giving him a look normally reserved for the slower of children. Reluctantly he retreated closer to the exit noticing as he did so the others had also retreated to what little cover was available. Watching Carrow's movement with curiosity, "what…"

"Not now," Chuddy snapped.

And then Carrow struck, swinging the sword up and round in a crackling arc, striking the ground before him. There was a blinding flash, an explosive thump more felt than seen followed by a rain of dust from the steel rafters above.

There were chains hanging down from the steel beams that made up the roof frame, chains from which hung…"oh Merlin," Dumbledore whispered utterly appalled.

"Aye," Chuddy agreed, "poor sods."

The body that hung nearest him appeared to have had the skin flayed off its torso, crude runic seals burnt into the underlying muscle. Beyond it hung other corpses, human and animal, all of them mutilated and altered in some way.

He tore his eyes away from the awful sight only to find the concrete of the floor had been treated in a similar way, strings of runes of all kinds sprawling across it, intertwined with one another in no obviously determinable pattern. And there by Carrow's feet was a large trapdoor, clearly not an original feature, leading to a cellar he presumed.

There followed a flurry of activity and Dumbledore found himself pulled along in its flow as the building was carefully searched. The little office proved to be empty, a dusty carpeted space with faint lines on its wall hinting at where furniture had once stood, the loft above it a haven of dirt, dust, dead birds and several half-used bags of cement. The cellar on the other hand…

The sad remains that lay curled up at the back of the cage were vaguely human but at some point a tail had been added to their body and their knees reversed. A small part of his mind wondered if the alterations had been achieved with a curse of whether a potion had been specially concocted for the purpose. He dismissed the thought with a shudder of disgust, to do such things to someone clearly unwilling, distracting himself by looking round at what he assumed had once been a laboratory of some kind though it had been thoroughly cleared of equipment, only a couple of cracked flasks left sitting on the built-in work bench that occupied one wall.

Beyond that tucked into a corner was a metal door. Curiously he reached out fully intending to see what lay beyond, but as soon as he touched the handle… _an overwhelming sense of hunger, something utterly foul, its only desire to consume, to lay waste to all before it_ … he snatched his hand away shaken.

"Looks like they just left their rubbish behind," someone commented behind him their voice faint and dim, the door before him and the presence that lay beyond it mesmerising.

"We're leaving that for Carrow to deal with," a voice said right by his ear.

Startled, heart pounding, he whirled round to find Faulkes watching him with concern. "I'm fine," he said sounding rather defensive even to himself.

Faulkes gave him a look before turning to the others. "upstairs now, everyone."

The black clad soldiers beat a hasty retreat, Dumbledore trailing after them, back up into the empty dusty space of the warehouse.

It was utterly fascinating watching Carrow crush his armoured bulk down the dark stairs that led below.

"What if he gets stuck?" Dumbledore pondered out loud.

One of the soldiers snorted with laughter. Faulkes rolled his remaining eye. "I'm sure he'll be fine," he growled.

A floor shaking bang came from below, so strong that it gently rattled the chains hanging above.

"Curious, that incident in Knockturn," Dumbledore gave Faulks a vague smile, "I understand it was muggle-borns attacking muggle-borns. Very curious."

"True," Faulkes sounded rather preoccupied, "I get the impression they were rather resentful, and jealous of the success of others…we need to focus."

A thin scream filtered up from below, a sound like fingernails down a blackboard. There was another rattling bang from below, the chains above shaking and rattling growing until it sounded like the wind through trees.

He glanced up straight into the empty eye sockets of the flayed corpse that hung directly above him. It was watching him now with a hunter's intelligence.

"Look lively everyone," Chuddy shouted behind him. Whatever was said next was drowned out by a series of thunderous crackling explosions, and then the corpse that hung above him finally managed to wriggle its way free falling at his feet with a squelching thud, hissing angrily. With barely a thought he blasted it away with a jab of his wand.

The corpse hit the wall of the building with a thud heaving itself to its feet apparently more angry than injured…fire, he needed fire if this was in fact a kind of inferi.

As the corpse charged him he doused it with a gush of conjured fire causing its run to turn into a slide as its legs gave out. Screaming, the thing scrabbled around on the floor in circles like a drowning spider.

More shaken than he'd like to admit, he turned to the others only to find himself surrounded by fighting, the dark figures of Faulkes and the soldiers contrasting sharply with the meat red of the corpses as they struggled with one another in a cacophony of yells, screams, gunfire and knifes plunging into flesh, all sweaty desperate effort.

What did he do now…more fire perhaps? There was always the fire-whip…

The crackling chain of fire smashed through the dog-corpse reducing it to charring chunks of bone and meat, blackened score marks marring the concrete. Turning he wrapped the whip around a human corpse's neck sending it spinning into the wall the next moment, its head nearly severed from its body, the neck stump now blackened and smoking.

"Nice," the blonde lady (Athena he thought) shouted at him as she shoulder barged her attacker stabbing it in the stomach with the ugliest plainest knife Dumbledore had ever seen, booting it in the knee with a nasty grisly crunch. Was it really something he wanted to be complimented over, it wasn't as if he could really use it as a party trick was it, he thought as he watched the corpse stagger sideways. It attempted to rally, to continue its attack but its knee was now distinctly uncooperative, Athena chasing after it with her knife.

But then he had problems of his own, a twisted cross-breed between a human and a cat that seemed blessed with far too much intelligence, seemingly anticipating his every move with the fire-whip, leaping and twisting and jinxing out of the way as it moved ever closer, cackling in a crude approximation of laughter. And he was tiring too now, exhaustion creeping up on him far too soon, making his limbs heavy, his breathing laboured.

The thing was gaining, getting closer with every dodge. With a surge of its limbs it made to leap for him a clawed hand jerking out to snare the end of his beard. To his utter horror the white hair began to blacken and whither seeping the stain seeping slowly upwards. In desperation he brought the fire-whip round slicing through his own beard. But then Faulks shoved into him nearly knocking him to the floor, the man's gun (gonne, he wasn't sure) barking, the creature jerking with each shot, his sword coming round in a slash of blue energy cleaving deeply into its shoulder and neck.

"All right?" Chuddy asked by his shoulder.

Surprisingly, "I think so," he gave the shorter man a shaky smile, holding up the end of his beard for closer examination. It was a full foot shorter, the end scorched, the hairs shrivelled with heat but that terrifying creeping stain seemed to have been halted. Thank Merlin.

That had been a little too close for comfort.

The floor bucked and flexed a moment as if something were trying to burst through, the muffled screeches and screams form below reaching a crescendo, Carrow bellowing in triumph as something gristly tore and cracked.

"Should we…" Dumbledore gestured uncertainly towards the shadowy steps with his wand.

"Naw," Chuddy shook his head, "best not get involved in that."

"Sounds like the big guy's having fun," the dark-haired lady (maybe Juno, he was sure he was imagining things now) said holding her gun just a little more firmly.

The sounds of fighting coming from below were less intense now as if whatever shadowy thing it was were losing energy, struggling against the inevitable.

The shadows intensified for a moment, the air becoming thick and heavy, long slender figures coalescing out of the gloom watching him with malice. He edged away, wand at the ready but they crowded towards him passing around the unaware muggles who were watching him and Faulks with concern…and then the pressure suddenly disappeared as something snapped in a soundless explosion that Dumbledore had a suspicion that only he and Faulkes had felt.

"Alright?" Juno asked suspiciously her gun held ready, not quite pointing at them Dumbledore noted, but it could be.

Faulkes gave her a jerky nod which seemed to reassure her.

Carrow reappeared then, easing himself out of the cellar steps in a way that would have been comical if he hadn't been dripping with thick black gore.

"All is well?" he boomed taking in the state of the warehouse with obvious interest, the floor now littered with dismembered and charred corpses, the concrete now blackened and cracked the rune strings broken, fire burning merrily to one side filling the ceiling space with thick black smoke.

"It seems you were as industrious as I," he gave them all an approving smile as he backed away from the cellar entrance a few steps.

Dumbledore felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise, the pressure of the air increasing as Carrow called a blazing white fire to his cupped hands, tossing it down the stairs with a flick of his fingers.

There was a soft boom and smoke began to drift from the entrance bringing with it the scent of something indescribably vile burning.

"Now what," Dumbledore muttered as they filed out.

"A sodding shower if you're sensible," Chuddy said a little too loudly.

oOo

That wasn't exactly how he'd been intending to spend his afternoon, Dumbledore thought as he made his way up the path towards the Castle. It had been very interesting, instructive even, wasn't any help at all towards all the work piling up on his desk, and didn't the Castle look particularly beautiful as it caught the late afternoon sun just so, he paused to consider the matter.

And he had another problem, he wondered did monster fighting, or as Carrow would put it, fighting for the moral integrity of Humanity, always produce such an appetite? He was quite certain he would put some of the more ravenous youngsters to shame at dinner later…

"There you are," a relieved shout cut through his train of thought jerking Dumbledore away from his contemplation of the Castle and steak and kidney pudding.

Striding towards him along the path was Minerva looking as frazzled and worried as ever he had seen her. "Are you alright…oh Merlin, what happened?" she looked him up and down horrified.

Glancing down at the tattered, stained and slightly singed state of his robes Dumbledore really couldn't blame her. "Honestly I'm perfectly all right," he tried to reassure her, "just a little tired and definitely looking forward to dinner."

The expression she levelled at him would have put a basilisk to shame. "I rather think that Poppy will be the judge of that," she grabbed his arm and proceeded to drag him towards the Castle and the main entrance.

There standing on the steps waiting for them were Amelia Bones and a couple of bored looking Aurors.

"Headmaster," Bones said her expression turning to concern as she took in his appearance, "we received a report that you had been…kidnapped by Mr Carrow, right off school grounds in fact."

Dumbledore paused; technically he had hadn't he, he fiddled with the singed end of his beard. "Well…" he began carefully ordering his thoughts, "it wasn't really. I willingly went with Mr Carrow…unwillingly, and assisted him with an extremely dangerous site. There were inferi or as near as," he added.

There was an appalled silence and then everyone began talking at once.

" _What?"_

" _Bet we're going to have to deal with the bloody muggles again."_

" _That awful man!"_

" _What's he set on fire this time?"_

"That dreadful, awful man," Minerva seemed quite beside herself. Marching up to him, she grabbed his arm and proceeded to tow him inside the Castle, ranting all the way, Bones and her Aurors following behind.

Despite his protestations, she dragged him all the way to the Hospital wing, not taking notice of a single word he said, and then when they arrived Poppy took one look at him and proceeded to wrestle him into a set of the hospital wing's extremely itchy flannel pyjamas, levitating him into a bed when he attempted to escape. It really was quite unfair.

And then Amelia appeared by his bedside, clearly hiding her amusement, and began peppering him with questions. Fortunately a bowl of chicken soup and fresh bread rolls made an appearance, making the thinly veiled interrogation a little more bearable.

He wasn't even sure what he should or even could tell her either. "You'd be better off talking to Mr Carrow you know," Dumbledore said when asked a particularly difficult question about the rune chains that had decorated the flesh of the inferi.

"Believe me, I will be doing so," she gave him a tight little smile, "but it's nice to get someone else's perspective on these things, fill in the gaps…see what he misses out. And now I think I will leave you. I'm sure Madam Pomfrey will come and turf me out soon anyway, and you look like you could really use a nap."

He wasn't that tired, Dumbledore gave her retreating back a half-hearted glare, maybe a little bit, around the edges. He would rest his eyes a moment, just for a couple of minutes, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

_Harry Potter is owned by J K Rowling while WH40K is the property of GamesWorkshop. The bits in between belong to me._

 _Thank-you to my beta who has been incredibly patient, put up with all the gore, and kept my cruelty to commas to a minimum._

* * *

Author's note

Finally, the penultimate chapter.

Trying to be all correct, I actually looked up the official canon layout for the Ministry of Magic. To be honest it made absolutely no sense to me, so I decided to ignore it completely.

I've always assumed that the Department of Mysteries for instance, was the deepest level of the Ministry, with things like the courtrooms and the Ministers official office just above as the oldest part of the Ministry, the newest parts of the Ministry being the upper floors, with the Atrium being the top most floor, the unfashionable floors sort of lying in the middle, including Carrow's office, which now takes almost an entire floor all by itself. And of course there are lots of little, utterly unnecassary departments that don't really do anything, that were formed purely to give some influential Ministry employee's eldest something to do.

This is just my take on the Ministry from reading the books.

Anyway, thank-you for your continued patience with the slow pace of my writing, and I hope you enjoy this latest chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

"Anything exciting happen while I was away?" Wulfric gave him a hopeful grin as they waited their turn in the duelling pit.

"Depends on what you mean by exciting doesn't it," Timothy said as he tested the weight of the practise sword a moment. "You missed a raid on another abandoned lab."

"Really," Wulfric grimaced, "can't decide whether I'm happy or sad about that."

"Believe me," Timothy said as the duel between New Girl and Juno came to a clattering halt, "you weren't missing much. Just loads of skinned, reanimated corpses…oh, and the thing Carrow was having a punch up with. If you wanted to join us you could have just told your "friends" you were washing your hair or something."

Wulfric grimaced, shuffling his feet, obviously uncomfortable. "I told them about the lunar project, you know…what's planned…not in any great detail," he added as Timothy gave him a suspicious look.

"They want me to sabotage it," Wulfric glared at his boots. "I told them to get lost. They aren't very happy with me at the moment."

"But you'll be alright?" Timothy asked, his concern rising.

"Sure," Wulfric shrugged, his smile rather forced. "I think…maybe…I don't think they quite believe how far along the lunar settlement is, and…I refuse to be responsible for endangering the lives of innocent people, and…"

Timothy gave his shoulder a comforting pat. "Say, haven't you got a report to write for Carrow, in triplicate?"

"Ha, bloody ha," Wulfric sneered at him.

"Don't moan. See, this is what happens when you go gallivanting off and getting left out of things," Timothy said, turning to the ladies as they came up out of the pit.

"Who's next?" he asked.

"I'm knackered," Juno said, "New Girl, try yourself against Faulks."

New Girl froze, looking up at him, her red eyes wide. "Er…really? I'm not sure…"

"You'll be fine," Juno clapped her on the shoulder, "it'll give you more experience of fighting different people. You don't want to get too used to fighting me and Athena, and neither Chuddy or Bradely are an option. They've gone fishing together."

New Girl didn't seem at all convinced.

"The more experience you get the better," Juno turned her and gave her a little shove back towards the duelling pit.

"Be nice, Timmo," Wulfric muttered behind him as he followed.

Timothy ignored him.

It was as he stepped down into the pit he heard the angry shouting. Carrow had placed himself in front of the Apothecarion door and was now refusing to let Healer Slaughter enter, the Healer's shouts becoming increasingly hostile as he swatted away a parchment roll Carrow kept trying to give him.

"Is Carrow trying to get signed off as fit to work?" Juno said watching the confrontation with interest.

"He's been perfectly fine for months," Timothy growled as he descended into the duelling pit where New Girl was waiting for him.

"I'm pretty certain Slaughter had just been refusing to give him a full bill of health out of sheer resentment or something; he healed too fast after being disembowelled," he explained to New Girl, who winced even as the angry shouting got louder.

"Don't worry about them," Timothy gave her a ghoulish smile, "are you ready?" He hefted the practise sword, taking up a fighting stance.

New Girl followed his example, obviously nervous about facing him. Her first few strikes and counter-strikes were a little tentative as he tested the waters. For having barely six months experience with a sword she was doing pretty well.

Seeing an opportunity, he darted in, catching her in the shoulder with a quick stroke, easily parrying her blade as she tried to stop him, attacking again. Panicking, New Girl swung her sword round in the most uncoordinated wild slash he'd ever seen. Desperately he tried to parry or just get out of the way but her blow slipped through his guard, the tip striking him just above his left eye, dragging down to bite into his cheek.

He was blind.

He could not see.

Vaguely he was aware that somehow he'd ended up sitting on the ground and Wulfric was talking to him. With an effort he got control of his breathing, his heart still racing away even as he boxed away the part of his mind that was currently screaming and jabbering in terror of being left in the dark…which was ridiculous when he thought about it.

He could probably afford to have an enchanted eye like Old Mad Eye's, and that was before he went near the crazies in Bio-Mech who would more than likely be delighted to make him an artificial eye...the panicking animal part of his brain froze, short-circuited by his logic.

"Wulfric," he croaked, "my eye?"

"I'm not sure," Wulfric's voice seemed concerned, "there's a lot of blood though, so…"

There was the sound of approaching footsteps, something being placed in the sand beside him.

"Looks like we're on our own, pair of bloody idiots," Athena grumbled, "good job we've managed to cobble some first aid experience together between us isn't it."

Something wiped at his eye, the sting of antiseptic causing him to hiss in pain, clenching his teeth.

"It's just blood," Wulfric's voice was full of relief.

Tentatively he opened his eye, blinking as it stung and watered. Wulfric's worried face swam into view.

"Okay?" the werewolf asked.

Was he? "No, I'm bloody not," he croaked as Wulfric and Athena prodded at his face taping his wounds up, New Girl watching, looking on the verge of tears.

Across the training hall, Slaughter was still screaming abuse at Carrow, apparently not having noticed what had happened. Struggling to his feet, his anger beginning to smoulder, he marched over, the others watching him with concern, their calls rolling off his back, ignored.

Storming up to the arguing pair he snatched the roll of parchment from Carrow's hand, quickly confirming that yes, it was indeed the form to confirm his return to full health. He turned on Healer Slaughter, his rage coming to a nice roiling boil. "Sign the bloody form _now_ ," he hissed.

Slaughter backed away a little looking as if he were actually intending to argue the point.

"Do. Not. Mess. Me. Around," Timothy growled thrusting the form into the man's chest.

Slaughter actually backed down, pulling out an ever-inked quill, scribbling his signature on all three of the copies.

"Finally," Timothy snatched them back, thrusting them at Carrow who delicately took them. "You should have signed them months ago, _he's_ been perfectly fine since at least _October_ , but no, you just had to be an arse."

Slaughter reared back as if slapped.

"I'm going out," Timothy snapped making for the doors, swooping through them as dramatically as he could.

oOo

His anger only began to ebb when he apparated to the path that ran down the side of his parents' house, the sheer reassuring familiarity and utter ordinariness of the concrete slabs and the row of leylandii of next door's house hitting him like a sledge hammer.

Shaking, he had to lean against the wall of the house a moment. He hadn't gone blind, he really hadn't, but for a moment there…with a shaking hand he pulled out his pack of Black Russians, pulling one out and lighting it up

He just needed something normal for a moment, normal people, normal places, just _normal_ …he tossed the cigarette butt and with a flick of his fingers caused it to burn to ash in a flash of blue light, before it could fall to the ground.

Knocking on the kitchen door got no response. He couldn't see anyone through the living room window either. Peering round the front, he discovered that Dad's car wasn't there, not surprising as he was probably at work, but it looked like Mum's car was gone too, which meant she must have gone into town. He was just going to have to…go into town then…

He started down the drive, only to come to a skidding halt; he'd got his gun on him, he couldn't carry that around town even if it were hidden away. Racing back to the house he let himself in via the kitchen door with a quick flick of his wand. Taking the stairs two at a time, he dived into his old bedroom which was looking even more like a spare-room/dumping ground for junk than ever; it felt odd not having the shoulder holster on, not realising how much he would miss its comforting weight.

Back down the stairs, the house eerily silent and still without its usual occupants. Where would Mum go; he considered the problem. She'd probably gone to do her weekly supermarket shop, but after she'd put it in the car she often went and had a cup of tea…but then sometimes she met up with Auntie Agnes for lunch, or there was that time she'd been taking some sort of computer classes at the local college. Or maybe she'd even gone to aerobics. He was pretty certain she still did that several times a week. In other words Mum could be just about anywhere.

He slumped down onto the sofa. Maybe it would just be easier to wait. He would just rest his eyes…eye a moment, and…

oOo

"… _can I have a consonant please, Carol…"_

" _M," a female voice intoned._

The voice drifted into his dreams, gently tugging him away from his slumber.

" _And a vowel please…"_

" _E."_

" _Another consonant, please…"_

" _D."_

" _Vowel, please…"_

" _O."_

Bloody _Countdown_ , Timothy grumbled to himself.

" _Consonant."_

" _N."_

" _Consonant."_

" _Y."_

" _Vowel."_

" _E."_

Why was he dreaming about _Countdown_ of all things?

" _Vowel."_

" _E."_

" _Consonant."_

" _C."_

He struggled, blearily to open his eye, still not quite sure if he was awake or not, only to find the telly on, Mum sitting in her favourite chair, enjoying a cup of tea in the best china, Artemis stretching luxuriously as she peeled herself off the rug where she'd been napping, padding over to the French doors which were now wide open, letting in a warm breeze. He watched her go, wondering why a little part of his mind was jumping up and down and shouting that this wasn't a good idea. He really wasn't awake enough to remember, or frankly care.

Whoever was sitting next to him shifted, the sofa protesting angrily at their weight, their breathing deep and bellows-like.

"An interesting selection of letters," Carrow boomed, "I propose decoy…or perhaps…enemy."

Timothy rolled his eye.

"Yeoman," Mum said, "or…moneyed."

He could only watch in fascinated horror as Mum and Carrow played along to the game-show. Maybe he'd been poisoned and this was some sort of fevered hallucination, because it was definitely one of the odder things he'd witnessed.

The show marched inexorably towards the advert break and Mum, seeing an opportunity, bustled through to the kitchen, intent on putting the kettle on for more tea, leaving them alone a moment. Timothy gave the giant man a half-hearted glare.

"I assured Mr Deer that I would see to your well being," Carrow said, "he has a report to write after all. He expressed considerable concern as to your reaction to your most recent injury."

Timothy slumped down further on the sofa trying to hide his embarrassment as best he could. "I over reacted," he mumbled, staring at the television as an advert for life-insurance ran its course. The previous one had been for funeral plans. Maybe they were trying to tell their viewers something.

"I got blood in my eye and panicked," he muttered. "Thought I was blinded." He shuddered at the memory.

"An understandable fear," Carrow said, though Timothy had a suspicion he was being humoured. "Have you noticed that the scars Natasha has, bear a striking similarity to those of your new girl? Far too similar to be coincidental, I feel."

And in their line of business there was no such thing as a coincident. "You don't think Natasha was like…a practice run, maybe. An experiment?" Timothy asked, dreading the answer.

"Most likely," Carrow nodded, "We have found several of their laboratories, but most likely not all of them, so this person and her group are manufacturing these altered beings on quite a scale. Not quite industrial, but…"

Oh wonderful, Timothy thought, more fuel for his nightmares.

"…a fair scale, given the means available to her. So, what does she plan to do with them?"

Absolutely nightmare fodder; a chill went down his spine as his mind helpfully provided him with ideas, each one more disturbing than the last, and none of them seemed feasible. What did they know about her really? She wanted power, to disrupt magical society. It all depended on how ambitious she was.

Thankfully, Mum returned at that point with fresh tea as Countdown started again, the room settling back into the quiet comfort of word and number puzzles, and he was left alone once more to sink into the dark mire of his thoughts.

A worrying little thought tugged at his mind, distracting him a moment from the dark mental well he'd tripped into, some important little detail, he stared at the rug, something he was missing…

"Where's Artemis?" he asked, craning his neck, trying to see through the French doors.

To his momentary relief and growing worry, Artemis chose that moment to reappear, oozing into the living room with an air of accomplishment. His suspicions were confirmed when she dumped a rather soggy and dazed miniature dachshund on the hearthrug.

"Oh goodness," Mum breathed, "that's Flossie from number twelve."

Timothy scooped little Flossie up and thrust her into Carrow's arms. "And of course you'll be returning her, won't you?" He glared up at the large man who looked down at the small canine in puzzlement.

"And after that Mr Carrow will be taking you to the hospital," Mum said in her most commanding tone. "Don't think I haven't noticed the mess you've made of your face. Yet again."

"Mum," Timothy groaned.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The droning chant of the servitors seemed to be reaching a crescendo, the Chapel hazy with incense smoke. Carrow was just visible among the servitors gathered before the altar, heavily swathed in black robes as he led this service.

"Going all out isn't he," the portrait of James Potter muttered. Lily elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"I can honestly say that I haven't missed this in the slightest," the God-Emperor grimaced, shaking his head sadly at the parade of dedicated servitors carrying various significant symbols and objects, swinging burning censors as they processed round to some arcane purpose.

"It's all rather awkward, isn't it?" Lily sighed.

Which was putting it mildly!

If Carrow really wanted to talk to him, pour out his feelings or whatever, he'd be fine with that. Probably drag him to one of the local watering holes and discuss things over a pint of their finest. But no, Carrow was utterly beyond stubborn, refused to just try and be friends, and insisted on holding these ridiculous services dedicated to a future (and mostly dead) version of himself.

But when he approached Carrow about what currently appeared to be bothering the man, he avoided or even ignored him, just like he was doing right now, the hunch of his shoulders giving him away.

Maybe he should just grab the irritating man and drag him to the pub.

The servitors trooped solemnly past clutching their precious burdens. Seemed things were winding down, but Carrow lingered by the altar, deep in thought.

Sidling over, he was just about to drape his arm around Carrow's shoulder when it happened, a pulse, a violent explosion, carrying along with it the death screams of human life that abruptly rippled through the Immaterium. It happened very closely too; he stared unseeing towards the Chapel wall where the painted warriors, sensing something had happened, were running back and forth, frantically looking for something to fight.

"That did not feel at all auspicious," he vaguely heard Carrow mutter, but his thoughts were already elsewhere as he made for the doors of the Chapel. Something dire had happened, but who and what, his mind frantically scrolling through the list of work he knew R&D were currently up to.

Had something happened in engineering, he considered as he made for the underground rail transport, barely aware of Carrow following in his wake.

oOo

"How could this have happened," Lettuce Strange cried, her eyes wide, her face pale. "It's theoretical Arithmancy and Advanced Runes, for Merlin's sake."

The sprinkler system was going full tilt, soaking the corridor as the fire alarms shrieked away. It didn't seem to be making much difference though to the smoke that drifted from the double doors leading to the Arithmancy & Runes department, even as the in-house fire fighters arrived with their equipment, decked out in their fire-proof insulated suits, oxygen masks already in place.

Watching the foaming, sparking smoke pouring out of the doorway, the God-Emperor found he had to agree. How could "magical" maths and symbols lead to this, especially since this was where all the theory boffins lurked. He could understand it if it had been Engineering, even Bio-mech, but this…obviously there was some hazard here they had grievously over looked.

Lettuce nervously shifted from foot to foot, distractedly accepting the data-slate one of her subordinates offered her.

"We've done a rota with the clock-in list and we're missing a couple of people," the young man said, his face ashen under his dark tan. "I've put out the message that they're to report to rally point alpha, in case they've wandered off after this…" he gestured towards the soaked corridor and the fire-fighters as they worked.

"Thank you, Mr Warren," Lettuce said, giving the soaked corridor a worried glance. "We can only hope they've become misplaced in the panic."

But the God-Emperor could not shake a nasty sinking feeling, and he was not to be disappointed. There was a commotion by the still smoking doors and some of the fire-fighters reappeared carrying a still body, filthy with soot on a stretcher, a heavy-duty sheet with carry handles around its edges. They marched quickly past taking their charge out to the waiting ambulance, but he already knew. One of their own had already passed.

"What were they working on specifically?" Carrow asked. The God-Emperor looked round to find the man, still clad in his black robes, glaring at the fire, at the second dead person being carried past, at the dripping, smoke stained corridor as if it had personally offended him.

"I'm not entirely sure," Lettuce said, watching Carrow warily, "the cogitators should all have automatically backed up to the central memory bank, so we should be able to find out…we'd got several interesting projects on the burners at the moment, everything from a new runic system to increase computing power for our cogitators, to an arithmetical model of the nature of reality…what caused this, I couldn't even begin to consider."

Carrow didn't look at all happy about this in the slightest.

Looked like a little detective work was in order, the God-Emperor thought as he watched the fire-fighters work, the smoke finally beginning to thin.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"…just realised I got _algiz_ and _mathr_ mixed up on question four. So silly of me they're so different! I mean _algiz_ is from the elder furthark and _mathr_ is from the younger and they have completely different sound values and magical properties and…"

Ron groaned, sharing an exasperated glance with Neville, who, just for once, wasn't in his animagus form. "Hermione," Ron said, beyond exasperation, "we really don't want to rehash the OWLs, yet again. Please, give it a rest."

Hermione was apparently so far down her rabbit warren of post-exam stress she didn't hear him, carrying on with her rant.

"Greetings, fellow warriors against the darkness," Greg boomed in his best Carrow impression as he approached them, Millie trailing behind him grinning. The smile on his face slid off as he took in Hermione's ongoing rant. "Oh Throne, she's at it again."

"Yup," Neville sighed. "About every day since the OWLs finished."

"She'll be making herself ill if she doesn't stop it," Millie glared at Hermione's back as they made their way into the Great Hall, the house tables heaving with excited students all eager for the Leaving feast to start. "She already looks like she's not sleeping properly."

"I have a plan," Neville said.

The others turned to him, expressions wary but interested as he explained.

"That sounds like it could work," Greg said, "but you get to tell her."

"Fine," Neville said, marching over to Hermione who was now watching them suspiciously. Ron hurried after him.

"What?" she snapped as they approached.

"Okay," Neville said, steeling himself. Ron nudged him encouragingly with his shoulder.

"Right. We know you're really worried about how the exams…and everything else that's gone on," Neville said in a rush, "but we all agree, we don't think it's healthy…good for you."

"We're worried you're going to make yourself ill," Ron added.

Neville nodded. "Yeah, so we all agree. If you don't stop, we're going to write to Mr Carrow, and tell him how stressed you are, and how you need a distraction from it over the summer." He glared at her defiantly.

Hermione looked faintly horrified, flushed red. "Don't, please. There's no knowing what he'd think up. Just…I'll stop talking about the exams. You do know I've got an internship with Carrow over the summer anyway, so…I'm going to be pretty distracted…and I do hope all you guys will visit, so we can train together."

"Of course," Neville said.

"Count me in," Ron nodded. "But…an internship? An entire summer full of undiluted Carrow? Rather you than me," he shuddered dramatically.

oOo

"Hey guys," Colin gushed as he pushed in next to Ron, his younger brother following him. "You know how we had fun last summer…"

Vividly, Ron thought, grimacing at the memories of Colin with an arrow protruding from his backside.

"…all right for Dennis to join us this summer?"

The younger Creevey brother looked so excited by the thought, he might be sick at any moment. Ron exchanged glances with Hermione, another over enthusiastic child tagging along with them?

"I don't see why not…" Hermione began.

"Don't do it kid," Seamus hissed.

Dennis's cheerful grin faltered a moment, "why?"

"Because they'll corrupt you," Dean said, his expression intensely serious. "Look at them. Really look at them. It's like that Carrow bastard is contagious and infects everything and everyone he meets with his brand of crazy."

"Mr Carrow is not crazy," Hermione hissed, her temper clearly rising, but Ron stayed silent uncomfortably aware that maybe Dean actually had a point.

"Before you know it," Dean carried on, "you'll be swaggering around the place with a big gun and killing people just because he said so too."

Dennis was looking almost upset now. "Why would I do that?" he said, "I just want to have fun…do exciting things."

"Mr Carrow is _not_ crazy," Hermione snarled. "There are things out there, dangerous things that could destroy us all. He's trying to prepare us so that we can fight them."

"Oh really," Seamus looked completely unconvinced. "Sure he didn't make this all up? Figment of his imagination sort of thing?"

But a bell-like sound interrupted the argument, to Ron's intense relief, before Hermione could respond. At least it wasn't going to end with them rolling around on the floor, trying to stab each other with forks or something.

"If I can have your attention please," the Headmaster called, the sound level of the Great Hall gradually reducing.

Seamus slumped back, arms crossed, only able to glare at them as Dumbledore continued speaking.

"My goodness me, we're finally here at the end of, I'm sure you'll all agree, a rather eventful year…"

A ripple of muffled laughter spread across the Great Hall.

"…what with Professor Carrow's presence…and his rather abrupt departure and Professor Moody's temporary return. I'm afraid to announce that Professor Moody will not be returning next year…"

"Shame," Neville muttered, "he's rather good."

"…a little reminder to all those who have "borrowed" weapons from the suits of armour. It would be very much appreciated if they could be returned to their rightful places by tomorrow morning at the latest. We wouldn't want your parents to have to deal with the awkwardness of returning an accidentally acquired war-hammer or halberd, now would we. I can imagine the conversation at the owl post-office being most embarrassing for your parents. Best to avoid I think."

Even though, as far as he knew, he really hadn't accidentally managed to pack that pole-axe in his trunk, Ron couldn't help but shrink down guiltily as the Headmaster's knowing gaze passed over the Gryffindor table.

"…and so, I propose a toast to the end of another exciting year," the Headmaster raised his goblet. "To surviving an eventful year, with all limbs attached."

He could drink to that, Ron thought as he raised his own goblet.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

From the sounds drifting from the staff-room, it seemed the unofficial end-of-term staff party was well underway. Normally, he wouldn't be seen dead anywhere near the thing, but this year was special.

Hopefully, he wouldn't be too late to present the others with his prize, Snape thought as he sidled in clutching a bottle of freshly acquired vodka to his chest.

"Severus," Pamona swooped on him the moment he entered the room, clearly already a little tipsy. "We thought you weren't coming; you don't usually."

"I felt this year warranted it," he said, feeling rather exposed as Pamona tried to hug him. "I bring an offering," he shoved the bottle of vodka at her.

"Oh, Severus, a most excellent addition the buffet," she smiled, taking it from him before bustling off to the large table that normally dominated the staff room. Currently, it had been pushed back to allow more floor space, filled to overflowing with dishes of finger food and bottles of alcoholic beverages of various kinds.

In among the various bowls and plates were a motley collection of vases that someone had charmed to sing a variety of popular tunes, mostly off-key.

Faced with an evening of such aural torture, Snape toyed with the idea of escaping back to the dungeons, until Flitwick shoved a glass of fire-whisky into his hand.

"You know I actually considered dancing on the table at breakfast this morning," the little man grinned up at him. "I've never felt so delighted to see the end of a school year before."

Severus took a swig of the whisky, doing his best to hide his grimace at the taste. "I'm sure if you had done so, most of us would have joined in. We're rid of the Defence Club for two whole months…and we were rid of Carrow far earlier than expected, an added bonus."

"Definitely a reason to celebrate," Flitwick squeaked, happily bouncing on his heels. "You know, just the other day I caught some of the younger members of the DC attempting to ambush one another in the corridors for fun. They'd swiped weapons from the suits of armour again. And no, I didn't accept the "we were going to put them back" excuse either."

"Bloody idiots," Snape sneered.

"Luckily no one was hurt," Flitwick patted his arm consolingly. "Now I do believe there is an apple-turnover with my name on it over there."

Snape watched him go. Why had he decided to join them in this horribly alcoholic, overly social occasion? Must be madness; he winced at a particularly shrill wail from one of the singing vases.

Before he could retreat to a corner, barricade himself in with chairs or something, and glare at anyone who tried to start up a conversation or even got too close, the Headmaster appeared at his shoulder.

"Really Severus," Dumbledore gave him a quelling look, "how long were you intending on making those poor centaurs climb up and down the stairs to the Owlery?"

"What?" Severus glared at him, absolutely outraged. "I don't do anything of the sort. They insisted."

The Headmaster was trying to hide a smile in his beard, Snape suddenly realised. He was being teased. "They don't trust me to post their bloody letters," he grumbled. "They've got to do it themselves, but of course they insist that I escort them."

"I've offered to get them their own sodding owl, but they absolutely refused," Snape grumbled. "Always sending letters to Carrow's friend they are, and then, instead of sending the replies direct to the Centaurs he sends them to _me._ "

Dumbledore was actually smiling at him now, much to Snape's frustration. The annoying man didn't seem to be getting it.

"And then of course I have to go traipsing into the forest to give them their ruddy letters," he said, outraged at the sheer lack of sympathy coming his way. Couldn't the Headmaster see what an unnecessary and frustrating situation this was?

"It rather seems to me as if the Centaurs both like and trust you," Dumbledore smiled giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "And they don't trust lightly. I wonder if there are any lemon tartlets left."

Snape watched the old man drift off to the buffet in consternation. He? Friends with centaurs? Utterly ridiculous.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"The deaths of our colleagues." Senior Arithmancer Strange and her personal assistant Mr Warren looked particularly grim, "were due to entirely non-magical means."

"Well, thank Throne for that," Maria Curtis said.

The God-Emperor winced, did people have to. It really was a bit near the knuckle, he complained to herself as he glanced around the gathering. Various members of the board, Strange and her personal assistant, a senior member from the Internal Fire Department, Security and Xander himself had turned up to this unofficial meeting about the lab explosion, damage control really, in one of the conference rooms that looked near the board room and other senior management offices.

Xander had got at the furniture in this one; the chairs were spiky gothic objects in dark wood with velvet cushions on their seats, the long wooden table dominated the room, so heavy looking it wouldn't surprise the God-Emperor if it could be used as an effective defensive barrier in a fire-fight.

One of the man's paintings took up most of a wall, looming over the proceedings. It was an excellent depiction of a space scene. A large space-ship encrusted with pinnacles and gothic arches hung in orbit around a moon, its atmosphere thick with clouds, obviously settled, the lights of cities clearly visible on the night side. It hung above its parent planet, a Jupiter-sized gas giant that was banded with violent storms, flashes of lightening visible in the shadows cast by its ring system.

The whole thing had been animated by wizarding means as well, which must be interesting to explain to outsiders.

A very beautiful painting though. Was it from Xander's imagination, the God-Emperor wondered, or was this somewhere he'd visited, something he'd actually witnessed.

"...it appears that Ms Pentsemmon went back to assist Mr Forbes who had mobility issues and was struggling to get out. They were both overcome by the smoke and consequently passed away," the Senior Fire-Person said, his face grim.

"How is staff morale?" Dalziel asked.

"Awful," Strange said, "there's a lot of guilt over Mr Forbes being left behind."

"Understandable," Dalziel nodded, "but I'm still not entirely clear…what exactly happened to cause the explosion and fire in the first place?"

"Mr Warren, if you would," Strange said, her usual smile absent.

Her assistant cleared his throat nervously, clearly uncomfortable at suddenly becoming the centre of attention.

"Erm…right, yes. The err…the theoretical bods were fiddling around with an ancient Arithmancy puzzle that people have been trying to solve for centuries with little success…err, a number square called the err…Cipher of Damocles. It's part of a series of number squares, all the other ones having been solved over the years, except this one."

Mr Warren shifted, uncomfortable at some of the disbelieving looks those around the table were giving him.

"So…err…so nobody's ever been able to solve this one. So, because we've got access to all the computing power we have, especially that mainframe computer, some of the bods decided they'd give it a look over. They started by trying to express the Square in the different elements, earth, air, fire, water…and spirit…with erm…limited success." Mr Warren took a swig of water.

"So what caused the explosion then," Dalziel asked impatiently, "if it wasn't magical numbers of earth or something."

Strange glared at him.

"I'm getting to that," Mr Warren said, looking faintly harried. "Yeah, so after the elements didn't produce any results one of the team suggested using some muggle mathematical principles, so they started looking at the square with varying numbers of dimensions, one, two…three dimensions they got some interesting results but nothing major. It was when they got to seven dimensions that things went sideways." He glanced nervously around the group.

"Not exactly sideways though," the God-Emperor interrupted. "It appears that the square itself became charged and active in the presence of the solid-state rune based storage system the Theoretical department was using for temporary information storage, before uploading everything to the main servers. It didn't so much as explode as temporarily open up into another dimension…or dimensions. But I'll have to re-check my findings on that," the God-Emperor smiled as he looked round the table. "It's potentially a really exciting research possibility. Maybe we'll be able to work out how to fold space to allow effective interstellar travel."

All but Carrow watched him with stunned stony expressions, apparently underwhelmed by this exciting potential.

"Brilliant," Curtis sighed. "How are we going to explain to the official investigation that a magical number square in seven dimension caused an explosion, a small fire, and two deaths. Absolutely brilliant!"

"At least this isn't going to be as hard to explain as when we had to rescue someone from the middle of the Zero-G Testing Lab. I think we're just going to tell the official investigation that it was an electrical fault," the Senior Fire-Personnel said looking completely fed up. "It does on cursory inspection look like one. On the other hand this is an excellent opportunity to discuss possible revisions to our evacuation procedures…"

"What about support for the families of the deceased?" Xander interrupted. "I understand funerals can be somewhat costly, and I believe it will foster good will…"

The God-Emperor smiled to himself as Xander put forward his plans. He was sure the families of Ms Penstemmon and Mr Forbes would appreciate the financial help, as long as they didn't mind dealing with Xander's paternalistic attitude wrapped up in at least three layers of bureaucracy, that is.

"Interstellar space flight?"

He looked round and down to find Mr Warren standing by his elbow, a slightly manic gleam in his dark eyes.

"It's definitely a possibility," the God-Emperor murmured, "needs a lot of work though."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Shouldn't be long now before Carrow is reinstated from his little sojourn," Ptolemy Chant said.

"And isn't that going to be a bag of kneazles," Cuthbert Montague grimaced.

Dumbledore couldn't help but agree. "Which is why we need to prepare now," he said looking round the rest of his group of political allies. They were currently all stuffed into Montague's office, specially enlarged for the occasion, and a stranger assortment of people Dumbledore had never seen. To think politics in Magical Britain had come to this.

Chant and Montague had ensconced themselves behind Montague's desk, possibly to protect themselves from the lighter, less rabidly traditional leanings of the others.

Elphias Doge sat nearby, gazing vacantly into space, which was something he'd been doing more often just recently, which was rather concerning. Bathilda Bagshot, meanwhile, was nursing a cup of tea, sitting on the small visitor's sofa as if it were a throne.

Near the door Narcissa Malfoy and Augusta Longbottom had set up home, occasionally whispering to one another, an unholy alliance if ever he'd seen one. How it had come about, he really couldn't say.

And behind them, doing his best to blend into the wallpaper, was Sirius Black, probably the least predictable person in the room, also the one most likely to ingest unknown potions for entertainment. According to Severus, Black was actually lucky to have a liver at all after his little _issue_ over the New Year, and that was before the claims the man kept making that he was going to open up a joke shop with the Weasley twins of all people. If that was true it would either be an absolute disaster or poor Filch's worst nightmare.

Hopefully he could pull these disparate people together, against the overwhelming force of Carrow, to maybe at least rein him in a little, or maybe distract him slightly. One could always hope.

"Indeed. We need to "hit the ground running" I think the Muggles like to say. I'm sure Mr Carrow will be doing exactly that," he looked round the small group, "so we need to be on our guard for whatever he has planned next."

"Oh quite," Cuthbert nodded, "though it's hard when he and his supporters decide to do things that are beneficial, like the Educational Reform Bill. I found it particularly hard to dislike that one."

The others added their own knut's worth, though the overall trend seemed to be lukewarm approval.

"What's all this nonsense about Godric's Hollow needing an Auror presence?" Augusta demanded. "It's been a while since I last visited but it can't have changed that much."

Dumbledore turned to Bathilda who seemed to be having difficulties.

"Changed?" she finally exploded, "it certainly has changed, the rowdy parties in the town square at all hours of the night, all sorts of ragamuffins drifting past, and that young whippersnapper Montmorency Poot and his ridiculous bicyclette. Most unsuitable for a self-respecting wizard; he even puts his kneazle in a basket on the front…"

"Madam Bagshot," Dumbledore tried to dam the flood, but it was to no avail.

"…and the clothes the youngsters are wearing nowadays. Girls in trousers, I tell you, and boys wearing who knows what, and sometimes you can't even tell…"

"Sounds like every description of young people by the very old ever," Sirius muttered from his corner a little too loudly. There was a faint scream muffled by the office door but Dumbledore paid it no mind, more bothered by Sirius's talent for putting his foot in it.

"You're not too old to put across my knee you know," Bathilda glared. Augusta and Narcissa turned and smirked at Black, who glared and pretended they weren't there.

"There was a young man, but it could have been a girl, who can tell now-a-days. They were riding a floating board thing that they pushed along with their foot…and they had green hair. And then there were those girls last week who fell in my hedge on Saturday evening," Bathilda's voice held new levels of outrage. "Skirts up their bottoms the both of them, and they had cat tails and ears…"

"That's just a potion isn't it," Sirius grumbled, "nothing unusual there."

"They were muggles," Bathilda glared back. "Less magical than my doorknob, the pair of them."

There were running footsteps now, someone running past the office, urgent shouts, then desperate hammering at the door. The growing argument between Bathilda and Sirius to Dumbledore's relief came to a juddering halt, the gathering regarding the door with suspicion.

"Who could that be?" Montague said. "I said we shouldn't be disturbed."

Drawing his wand, Dumbledore cautiously opened the door a crack, only to have it wrenched from his hand as someone fell in, a dead weight, now sprawled on the floor, their robes a ragged blood soaked mess.

"What in Merlin's name?" someone gasped.

Dumbledore wrenched his eyes from the injured person, heart pounding, mind racing. Violence in the Ministry itself, again. There had already been that incident when Carrow's "office" had been attacked by hoodlums from Knockturn's grimmest back-alleys that Madam Bones was being extremely tight-lipped about.

Outside the office the corridor was silent and empty, blood smeared up the walls and staining the carpet black. Several doors down near the foyer to the lifts, an arm lay in the middle of the floor. It had clearly been physically torn right out of the socket.

Quietly, Dumbledore eased the office door shut. "I think," he said, "it would be a very good idea if we barricade the door."

oOo

Chuddy shared alarmed looks with Athena and Juno.

"Do we know exactly what…"

"No," Timothy snapped as he gave his equipment one last check. "All the emergency message said was that the Ministry was under attack from something not human, but extremely dangerous, and that they needed help as quickly as possible."

"That's reassuring," Juno snarked. Wulfric hid a cough of laughter.

Carrow gave a quiet snort that might have been amusement, or annoyance. "I am sure whatever danger there is, we will be quite able to deal with it. I and the Coven will enter from street level, while you and your team will enter from the underground entrance and work your way up from there. Between us we will pincer whatever this threat is."

Obviously feeling that this had dealt with all objections, the man put his helmet on with a deft twist and click, the eye lenses flickering into life, glaring down at them with their baleful green light.

"Everyone to your port-key," Carrow's voice growled, now distorted by the vox-caster of his helmet.

Timothy grabbed hold of the loop of sisal rope that would take him and his team to the Underground station and the back entrance to the Ministry. Hopefully this wasn't going to be as bad as his imagination was telling him, and if he had a pound for every time he'd wished that, he'd be a very wealthy man indeed.

"Activating," Carrow rumbled, "in three…two…one…"

There was a familiar tug at his navel, the intense spinning rush, and then he was being slammed into the concourse of the station, fortunately behind the notice-me-not wards, staggering as he tried to keep on his feet. Around him the others did their best to recover.

"Bloody bastard forgot he's at least a foot taller than the rest of us, didn't he," Athena snarled, looking distinctly unamused.

Something like, Timothy kept his thoughts to himself.

"Maybe he thought it'd even out," Wulfric said, his grin turning nervous as the others stared at him. "You know, on the journey here…" he trailed off.

"Right," Timothy glanced round the small group, Bradely and New Girl looking particularly nervous and unsure. "Let's get to it."

The unofficial back door that led into Carrow's office was open, currently guarded by a burly looking man Timothy vaguely remembered being from the office IT department. He looked entirely too comfortable with the way he cradled a Cadia rifle in his arms, shirt spattered with blood.

"Good, you're here," the man grinned, "Slyte is waiting for you. We've managed to barricade our floor thanks to the new security measures, and we've evacuated all non-essential personnel too."

"Excellent," Timothy said as he followed the man in, the others following cautiously in his wake. As they walked through to the main office the lack of people was eerie, an occasional streak of blood on the wall the only indication of what must have transpired here. Didn't look too bad, on a scale of one to Carrow; famous last words of course.

"What exactly are we up against?" Timothy wondered as he took in the damage to the front of the office. It looked like a warzone, the walls pitted and trashed where something had ripped into them, craters from bullets, more blood, dark and treacly smeared and splattered up the wall and even on the ceiling, the carpet covered in debris and dust that crunched underfoot.

The security barrier that had been installed to separate the office proper from the foyer in front of the lifts, after the incident with Caspian Glossop, had obviously taken the brunt of the attack. Blood was now splattered up the bullet proof glass, smeared in places, and there was a distinct dent in the steel shutter that had been dropped down and bolted in places.

Looking through the smears he could see a couple of bodies, an older man his bald head gleaming in the artificial light as he lay face-down in a pool of his own blood.

Beyond his prone form a lift stood open, its lattice screen buckled and torn from its tracks.

If he craned his neck and stood on tip-toes he could just see something slumped on the other side of the shutter. It was too large and meaty to be purely human, what flesh he could see a raw red criss-crossed with scars, some of which looked like sigils, if you squinted.

Rather like the creatures from the last lab raid.

Oh.

"Thank goodness you're here," Slyte said behind him.

Timothy turned to find Slyte standing there with some of the other staff of Carrow's office, all of them looking dishevelled, splattered with blood, some sporting minor injuries, all of them carrying weapons of some kind with clear purpose. Carrow would approve.

"So," Timothy looked over the battered group, "what's happened…and the creature?" He jerked his chin towards the hunched flesh heap on the other side of the shutter.

The office staff exchanged looks before Slyte step forward and began explaining. Timothy listened in growing horror at the descriptions of people running, the screams, the confusion as workers from other floors came falling down the stairs or out of the lifts with terrible injuries, desperate to escape the carnage. Reception had sounded the alarm and the office militia had armed up in preparation for whatever it was, while everyone else had evacuated from the rear entrance…and then it had arrived, trapped in the lift with some poor unfortunate, bursting out into the foyer and catching them by surprise.

"…gave it everything we'd got," Slyte said looking distinctly pale, "whatever it was soaked up so much damage, though."

"The energy weapons worked the best," Burly IT guy said.

"Yeah," grinned the short woman who stood at his side. Her face was covered in dried blood from a nasty cut on her forehead that had been hastily taped closed. "Opened the skakker up like a rotten sack."

Delightful. Timothy gave her a tight smile.

"So, you're going out there," Slyte said, glaring at the blood stained glass and the dent in the shutter.

"Yes," Timothy said, mentally bracing himself for the inevitable bowl-clenching terror of the next hour or so. "If you could lift the shutter up, that would be very helpful."

The shutter clanked and rattled, groaning as it was forced upwards by its motor. Ducking under it, gun at the ready, Timothy stepped out into the foyer, his boots squelching unpleasantly in the blood soaked carpet.

"If you find any survivors," Slyte called after him, "send them through to us. We'll get them out."

oOo

The alley that hid the back entrance of the Ministry of Magic was dingy and weed ridden, rubbish strewn everywhere, a faint hint of urine in the air. It was almost artful in its attempt to be as unappealing to lingering people as possible, which only served to make it appear more suspicious in Carrow's eyes. It stood out in such an otherwise tidy and prosperous part of London.

Wizards!, Carrow thought as he approached the bright red phone-box that stood at one end; he was sure that the non-magical people were beginning to phase these things out, but the magical people being what they were would probably cling to this thing until it became ridiculously anachronistic.

Though he had to admit that he was rather unfamiliar with the idea of telephonic equipment for general public use, and he was also, now he was able to get a good look at the thing, rather unsure how he was going to fit into it. It looked rather compact…and crowded.

Oddly, there were scraps of fabric pressed up against the panes of glass, even the odd hand, a squashed desperate face, lips slowly turning blue.

Gently grasping the utterly inadequate handle he pulled the door open, forced to step aside as a cascade of humanity poured out of the phone-box and into the alley, a groaning cascade of people and still the box wasn't empty.

A hand reached forward from the groaning mass, fingers brushing his armour. "Help," a voice whispered. More voices joined it, a desperate groaning cacophony.

"Oh Merlin," Caroline gasped behind him, her voice filled with horror.

Annie rushed forward, slinging her gun round onto her back, desperately trying to untangle the mass of humanity, the others slowly following her lead, pulling people free, leaving them lying on the ground or propped up against the walls.

Without a thought, he activated the emergency beacon that would automatically summon healer assistance to his location.

There seemed to be no end to this tide of humanity. No matter how many he dragged free from the phone-box, more replaced them. Most were obvious visitors, some with badges still attached to their robes, there were Ministry workers, there were even children. Increasingly they had obvious injuries, broken limbs, crushed chests even, but also raking claw marks as if attacked by some wild beast.

The sooner he got inside and dealt with whatever it was the better.

Healer Slaughter appeared then with a sharp crack of displaced air, his leather case clutched in his hands. "What the bloody hell have you…" he began, glaring around the alley, eyes going wide as he took in the carnage. "Merlin's bloody bollocks," he breathed.

"Help them," Carrow glared at him, "do whatever you need to, bring in whoever you need to. Just do it."

Healer Slaughter, for once, didn't even argue, pulling his wand out, jaw clenched as he marched over to the nearest victims, setting to work straight away.

Carrow ignored him, beginning to open up a way into the Ministry foyer. Calling the Coven to him, he walked through, the vampires tagging after him, Edwin dragging his sister after him as they made the leap through reality to somewhere else.

oOo

"…stopped that cut on his back from bleeding, but he may very well have internal injuries, and that one on his chest is nearly to the bone," Narcissa said pushing her hair back out of her face, her robes now liberally smeared down the front with drying blood.

"What about the arm?" Chant asked from where he crouched on the other side of the poor unfortunate who had stumbled so dramatically through the office door. "It looks broken, doesn't it?"

Narcissa nodded. "Maybe we can splint it temporarily, if we can transfigure a chair leg maybe…"

Dumbledore watched from his station near the office door as the pair set about supporting the mangled limb. Hopefully they would get out of this situation somehow, and then they'd be able to get the poor man to a healer, hopefully in time.

In the meantime though, they were stuck. Shortly after the arrival of their current patient, a red paper aeroplane message had squashed itself through the crack at the top of the door, a general message warning everyone of dangerous intruders, and to take cover and hide if possible.

While everyone had made their feelings known, he had taken charge, tipping Montague's desk over and positioning so it would give cover from anything bursting in through the door, which he had reinforced, locked, and warded, to the best of his abilities. The rest of the furniture he'd done his best to build a barricade with, but he was under no illusions of it standing up to an assault from a creature that could physically rip off someone's arm.

So now they were stuck here, trapped in a not particularly large office that increasingly smelt of blood and anxiety, for an undeterminable amount of time, with a severely injured man, who quite honestly probably wasn't going to survive despite the best intentions of his attendants.

This wasn't quite how he'd planned to spend his Thursday morning.

"Albus, _Albus_ ," Bathilda's voice broke through his thoughts. "There's something out there. Look." She jabbed a bony finger towards the gap at the bottom of the door.

Bathilda was indeed right. There was something on the other side, just a vague hint of movement visible under the door as something paced back and forth, snuffling, growling softly.

The hairs of the back of Dumbledore's neck stood on end; he cautiously, silently stepped away from the door, wand at the ready, as the thing on the other side began to scratch away at the carpet.

oOo

The lower levels of the Ministry had been virtually untouched, the few people there reluctant to leave from fear and uncertainty. He and the others had spent a few frustrating moments chivvying them up to the safety of Carrow's office and the welcoming hands of Slyte and her staff.

Now they were moving upwards, and to Timothy's acute frustration a headache was slowly building just above the bridge of his nose, the scars of his ruined right eye-socket aching in sympathy.

"That's claw marks that is," Chuddy helpfully pointed out the parallel gashes in the wall of the stairwell.

"Some poor bastard got it didn't they," Athena muttered as she skittered around a dark stain on the carpet that turned into a smear that lead up the stairs. There was the odd handprint on the wall too, Timothy noted as they climbed.

"Oh," Chuddy paused as he reached the next landing, carefully inching past something as he took up place to cover the next flight of stairs upward.

It was the owner of the blood, sprawled on the short landing, face down in a small pool of blood. There were long gashes in their back, down to the bone, he noted with detached interest.

"You know, that dead monster thing looked remarkably like those things we fought in that last lab raid," Chuddy's expression turned thoughtful.

"It did, didn't it," Timothy carefully skirted the corpse. Its left arm was a mere ragged stump. Had it been torn off…or had something chewed it off…his headache spiked with the thought.

They began making their way up the next flight of steps, Chuddy leading the way, his energy rifle at the ready for any sign of movement above them, while Juno guarded their rear, Wulfric dogging his heels, as they came closer to the more favoured, fashionable parts of the Ministry.

The altered creatures that had invaded the Ministry had preceded them, signs of their passage clearly visible now, rips in the stair carpet, scratches trailing up the stairs as if something had run its claws along the wall, something large and strong, and very dangerous. Carrow was going to be thrilled.

Behind him came a yelp and a thump, and he turned annoyed, head pounding to find New Girl had stumbled on the stairs, tripped on torn carpet and was now kneeling there, clutching her head, moaning softly.

Chuddy tutted in disgust, pausing nervously near the top of the flight of stairs, "we can't stay here. It's not safe," he snapped, moustache bristling.

Bradely tugged ineffectually at her arm. "Come on," he said, "we can't stay here, we've got to move."

But New Girl was apparently beyond all understanding, her fingers clawed, digging into her scalp as she whined in pain. "In my head, it hurts. It hurts. Make it stop," she groaned.

Timothy's headache spiked, and then it hit him, some sort of external influence, something psychic. He began one of the protective exercises Carrow had taught him, sighing in relief as the pain in his head receded to far more tolerable levels.

"You too," Wulfric muttered, watching him with concern.

Timothy ignored him. "Deep breaths," he told New Girl. "Even your breathing out, and slow it down. Try and think of your mind as enclosed within a spun steel lattice of light."

"I'm trying, I'm trying," she panted.

The scars on her hands and face were beginning to tear themselves open, Timothy saw with horrified fascination, the tips of her fingers ripping open as the bones there lengthened into talons.

"Try harder," Athena snapped at her, her rifle now pointing at the kneeling woman's back, which was beginning to ripple as if there were snakes under her skin desperately seeking a way out. Her whole frame twisting and distorting before their eyes, her clothing under such stress as her body swelled that it tore, shredding as the seams could no longer take the strain.

She looked up at him then, red eyes pleading even as her face began to lengthen and distort, teeth growing into shark-like spikes.

He didn't even think, the Browning seeming to rise of its own accord, Timothy watching in fascination as two small holes appeared in her forehead, a double crack of sound.

The light faded from her eyes and the twisted remains of New Girl slumped sideways spilling back down the stairs a little way.

Timothy looked around at the others, worried at their reaction, but saw only shock and understanding.

"I'll go retrieve her gun," Athena said.

oOo

He burst into the Atrium of the Ministry in a flare of warp energy, the vampires tumbling after him, into a scene of utter carnage. The bodies of the dead and dying littering the floor of the atrium, piled up in a groaning pleading heap against the lift dedicated to the muggle entrance.

The wall around what had been the lift doors had been cracked and broken as if the weight of people had pushed it in. It reminded him strongly of a decompression incident he had once witnessed aboard a merchant ship that had been ambushed and boarded by Corsairs.

Picking over the pile of humanity were monstrous creatures, very familiar creatures.

Ah, it looked liked their Dark Lady had finally decided to make her move, show her hand more clearly.

Once human themselves, her victims had been distorted and maimed, as if their creator was trying to fashion them into the likeness of various creatures, runes of control burnt into their raw weeping flesh.

And over it all a hellish sound, that tugged at his mind, whispered suggestions to him, put forward strange desires. Without conscious thought he reinforced his mental defences even as he looked for its source. There, clinging to the ceiling of the Atrium, hiding in among the ornamental plasterwork, was a pair of altered beings, extra arms and legs welded to their torso in an attempt to give them the form of spiders.

It was only partially successful. These things clearly needed exterminating but first…he plunged his sword into the chest of a creature, the size of a horse, its raw-red flesh scoured with foul marks, its face a forest of spikes and teeth. The energy field of his blade cooked the screaming, writhing thing alive from the inside out even as it reached out with talonned hands to tear at him.

Wrenching his blade free, he was looking for the next one even before its body thudded to the ground. Around him the vampire coven had spread out joining in the fray with blade and gun, fighting furiously against the monstrous things even as they pressed forward.

He smashed the pommel of his sword down crushing the skull of a slinking thing that got too close turning his attentions towards another, all the while intent on getting closer to the pair of spider-like sirens that were currently scuttling across the ceiling all the while spewing their foul song.

"Natasha, no!" Edwin's desperate shout carried above the angry screams of the creature he was currently killing, this one a strange cross between human, vampire and cat.

A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Edwin desperately struggling against his sister her body twisted and swelled, the runic scarring that littered her body ripping open, dark blood seeping sluggishly through the rents in her destroyed robes. Her face had lengthened into a horse-like muzzle, her ragged hair trailing down her spine like a mane as she grew, swelling grotesquely in size.

But he was hemmed in on all sides, crowded in now by more of these mutilated flesh puppets, seemingly determined to stop him rendering aid, unless…he leapt upwards, leaping off the back of a gorilla-like being, snapping its spine as he launched himself towards the ceiling and the spider-sirens still fouling the air with their corrupting song.

Carrow's fingers snagged around a leg, his weight pulling the shrieking creature from its lair among the ornamental plasterwork, slamming the spider-like thing down onto more of its brethren, with a crunch of bone and gristle.

Though the psychic racket was reduced it went on, still clawing at his mind, however ineffectually.

"Fight it, fight it!" Edwin screamed at the thing his sister had become even as it snapped its teeth inches away from his face. The others were distracted now, watching in horror, too distracted to see to their own defence, unable to hit the twisted remains of Natasha without hitting Edwin too. Carrow could sense the entire mission unravelling, teetering on the edge of disaster…

Charging he sprinted towards the struggling Edwin and the remains of Natasha, tossing struggling creatures and vampires out of his way.

"Come on little sis, you're all I've got left," Edwin's sobs were muffled by the skull mask of his pressure suit.

But the remains of Natasha were beyond all reason. Carrow could only watch as it lunged forward, catching Edwin's head in its jaws, crushing his head to pulp, his body disintegrating into dust inside the pressure suit as it slumped limply to the floor.

Before the remains of Natasha could move on to its next victim Carrow was on it, sword thrusting through its distended belly even as he grabbed hold of the back of her neck, squeezing and twisting, its head easily deformed under his augmented fingers, the skull crushing into the brain matter below.

He could almost feel the pseudo-life escaping from its body as it became merely a lifeless object, suddenly losing all form as it crumbled to dust, shattering on the floor.

Around him the fighting swirled as the surviving vampires desperately engaged the press of altered flesh-creatures. He turned, intently scanning the ceiling searching for the second spider-siren, determined to end its infernal control, but it was nowhere to be seen.

It couldn't have gone far; it wasn't as if the thing could really get out unless there was some entrance no one had deigned to tell him about. And he was right, just as he forced himself through to the remains of the wand-weighing desk leaving a trail of twitching dead behind him, he was just in time to see a selection of severely miss-matched limbs disappear around a corner deeper into the bowels of the Ministry.

"To me!" he urged the vampires to his side, as he took off after the creature, determined to put an end to its God-Emperor cursed existence and its foul influence.

For the God-Emperor was with him, and if he wasn't, and this did sound rather heretical, he thought, he was going to march into his lab to complain.

oOo

"Maybe it'll get bored," Sirius whispered, his voice barely audible in the thick menacing silence of the office. The others glared at him, too tense, too scared to talk as the thing in the corridor paced back and forth outside the door muttering to itself.

Its shadow moved away, its growling voice fading into the distance.

"Damn, that was too close," Chant muttered wiping the sweat away from his brow with his sleeve.

"Too right," Bathilda muttered darkly from her seat. She glared at the door, her wand pointing at it steadily. "Bloody creepy things stalking around the Ministry and…"

The door exploded in a shower of splinters, someone screaming as something large, raw and meaty with far too many teeth shoved its way through the remains of the door, lunging towards them.

Without even thinking he twisted his wand, transfiguring the remains of the door into hundreds of steel needles that he directed to fly up to bury themselves in the thing's body, even as Montague shot a stream of ice at it and Bathilda flung something that looked extremely like a blood-to-acid curse that had been banned in the 70's.

The creature reeled, howling in pain its multiple eyes frozen solid in their sockets. Stumbling, it staggered away from the door and along the corridor, collapsing on the carpet, twitching, its feet rhythmically thumping against the wall as it slowly died.

"Merlin's balls," Madam Longbottom exclaimed, "my poor heart."

"Your poor heart," Bathilda exclaimed, "my bloody arthritis."

"Ladies," Dumbledore intervened before the pair could get going. "I believe that we are far from safe…there are more coming."

In the distance there came a faint cackle of inhuman laughter, followed by another. Two more, Dumbledore looked towards the shredded doorway horrified.

"Maybe you should transfigure the desk into a new door," Madam Longbottom suggested.

oOo

"We should be near the DMLE, shouldn't we," Wulfric asked. He looked distinctly battered, his normally pristine khaki jacket liberally splattered with blood down one side.

Timothy glanced round at their surroundings, trying to orient himself, but finding the corridors of the Ministry unfamiliar, utterly changed by the damage the invading creatures had wrecked, the signs of hurried escape from the many Ministry staff, the abandoned belongings, the dead lying among the wreckage, some half chewed. This place was certain to haunt his sleep for some time to come.

"I think so but," he gestured with his sword, "it's hard to tell…"

"Better signage, that's what you need," Athena said, her voice too bright.

"Quite possibly," Timothy sighed as they passed yet another small office, its door wrenched off its hinges, its furniture a broken splintered mess, paperwork spilled haphazardly across the floor.

"Stop," Chuddy signalled. Their slow advance ground to a halt.

Timothy sidled forward to see what the problem was, Wulfric closely following him. There, lying in the middle of the corridor was a large pile of what looked like the contents of a butcher's, bleeding steadily into the carpet. One of the creatures possibly. Maybe it was taking a nap, he thought, for a mad second.

"Shall I go and take a closer look?" he offered.

Chuddy gave him a supremely disgusted look over his shoulder. "The bloody fuck you are," he said. " _I'll_ take a look. If it even twitches funny, kindly shoot the fucker."

"Fine, fine," Timothy scowled at the smaller man's back as he cautiously made his way forward to approach the possibly fallen creature his stomach churning with nerves, expecting the thing to suddenly jump up and attack. He watched as Chuddy approached the mound of raw flesh, cautiously at first, but then…he flinched as the other man kicked the thing's head to one side.

Not much could survive being beheaded; looked clean enough to be some sort of slicing charm, horribly over-powered.

He signalled the others forward when Chuddy gave the okay signal.

"Oh fuck," Chuddy suddenly exclaimed.

There, lying in a crumpled heap was an Auror, red robes stained dark with their own blood, most of it from where one of their legs had been partially chewed off.

"Looks like they put up a hell of a fight," Athena said as she cautiously sidled past the two corpses, ready to shoot it either of them twitched funny. "All sorts of spell damage on this," she shoved at the creature's corpse with one foot.

"Think they must have used some sort of cooking charm on it," Wulfric said.

"Possibly…looks like its intestines have been sliced and diced," Athena smirked.

"Delightful," Timothy muttered to himself, taking in the blood streaked corridor ahead. "We can't afford to be distracted. Not if we want to get out of here alive that is."

They followed the drag marks, the amount of damage increasing as they went, blood now splattered up the walls and even across the ceiling, spell-burn on the walls.

The ozone-crackle of a curse whistled past Timothy's face and he dived for what little cover there was in the doorway to a storage cupboard, its broken door revealing shelves of cleaning supplies, a mop and bucket clattering as he accidentally kicked it, Wulfric squashing in beside him.

"Hold your fire," he bellowed round the door jamb, half-expecting to receive a cutting charm to the face. "We're friendlies."

He glanced back down the corridor, checking on the others. Chuddy had taken shelter in another doorway, while Bradely and Juno were crouched in an alcove with a statue of a particularly disapproving previous Minister of Magic, Athena lying on the floor nearby, trying to be as one with the skirting board as she could manage.

"DMLE, Aurors," a vaguely familiar voice bellowed back. "Who the fuck is that?"

"What if those things have learnt to talk?" Wulfric whispered.

And wasn't that a nasty creepy thought, Timothy suppressed a shudder. "Interrogator Faulks and team," he shouted, "who are you?"

"Oh bloody hell," Auror Hewitt cautiously walked round a corner into the corridor, wand ready, his robes a torn mess. "You arse-holes. Should have known. You always turn up when things go down the crapper."

Behind him more Aurors stepped into view, bedraggled and blood-stained, their wands out, though some to Timothy's interest had also armed themselves with various short-swords.

"There's one of yours back there," he said as he sidled out of the cupboard.

Auror Hewitt glared at him, "alive?"

"No," Timothy said, the words sour in his mouth, "no, but…"

"Took one of those monsters with him though," Athena interrupted. "Pretty much disembowelled it."

"Good for him," Auror Hewitt looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "What are you twats doing here anyway?"

Quickly Timothy tried to explain, aware that they were losing time.

"Trust you lot to have an illegal exit," Auror Hewitt complained. "Bloody typical…though useful given the circumstances. We've a found a few survivors, but some of the injuries…" he turned his shudder into an abrupt shrug. "There are more of these _things_ stalking around here, trying to get into the Department…"

"Right," Timothy gave him a sharp nod, eager to get moving again, head pounding. "We're continuing upwards then...unless you would like assistance," he added reluctantly hoping Hewitt would say no. He wasn't to be disappointed.

"We're fine," Auror Hewitt bristled, "thank-you. You can leave it to the professionals. Right, we'll go this way. You lot can go that way," he jerked a thumb towards the Wand Regulation Offices and the lift lobby beyond.

"Fine," Timothy signalled the others forward. They sidled past the Aurors, both groups uncomfortable in the presence of the other despite their common purpose.

A warning shout coming from behind them was all the warning they had as more of the flesh-creatures swarmed out of their hiding places, from empty offices and little used corridors, hemming them in from all sides as they fought for their lives.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Why were the corridors so annoyingly small? His pauldrons nearly brushed the walls as he passed. A potentially dangerous annoyance, if these creatures were intelligent enough to think of an ambush, or would the spider-siren think of it then goad the other more mindless creatures into such a plan…

No matter. He would prevail.

The creature was being elusive so far. But by following the psychic racket the monstrosity was generating he was rapidly catching it up, working along the trail of psychic discord it left behind itself. It could not hide from him…round the corner it led…back into the main corridor, a much more civilised width, decorated with pompous plasterwork, knick-knacks on side-tables and over-important portraits of previous ministers and departments heads who glared and shouted, and waved their fists, as he stormed past for the second time.

For the creature had led him in a loop through this floor of the Ministry, back-tracking on itself in an attempt to shake him off. It was for too clever for his liking.

If memory served, it appeared to be making for the service stairs. But if he turned right here…

Grinning in the confines of his helm he broke into a sprint.

The funny little left-over space came into view as he rounded a corner sending a particularly ugly figurine of a knightly figure on a horse spinning to its doom.

He suspected that before the lifts had been installed this had once been a grand foyer for the stairs, but it was now much reduced, its space cut into to add more offices for the numerous small departments that inhabited this floor.

To his glee he could feel the spider-siren approaching and so he slowed waiting in the shadows to put an end to its unnatural life.

But the psychic noise slewed, wavering back a little way, then forward as if the thing were now indecisive, pacing. Had it felt him? It was entirely possible. If he could feel it then logic dictated that it possibly was sensitive enough to taste the infinitesimal shadow he was currently leaving in the warp himself.

Behind him there came a faint growl, a quiet shuffle of feet on carpet. He barred his teeth in a feral grin, the thing was trying to ambush him with more of its kin.

He moved out of the shadows, placing himself in front of the exit to the stairwell, blocking off the spider-siren's escape even as the creature it had corralled into this half-hearted attack burst out of the side corridor towards him.

This one was nearly as large as himself, a grotesquely swollen parody of a gorilla but with four arms ending in talons bird claws and spines erupting from its eye sockets.

It slammed into his side nearly rocking him off his feet, its clawed hands grappling for possession of his sword. So he dropped it, getting its head into a choke hold, crushing the life out of it even as its hands scratched and clawed at him, talons screeching on ceramite.

Gurgling and coughing, the thing's face slowly turned purple, its movements becoming increasingly sluggish and fitful. Squeezing as hard as he could, he felt the creature's neck give way with a dry little snap. He heaved its raw weeping carcass away from him with a heave of protesting servos just as the spider-siren tried to scurry past him.

His aim was true. The flying weight of the gorilla-creature hit the spider-siren full on, knocking it off the wall and flattening it against the floor in a tangle of twitching limbs, the psychic racket now reduced to a pathetic whisper, a distress call filled with pain.

Retrieving his sword he strode towards the tangled mess to find little more than the head and a few limbs of the spider-siren now poking out from under the larger creature, its sightless eyes staring out, terrified. He'd succeeded in flattening the spider-siren like some unwelcome insect. Rather a fitting end, he smirked down at it.

With both hands he drove the point of his sword down through its skull, cracking it in half, the faint whisper of the creature ceasing all together.

Movement caught his eye and he responded before he could think, sword coming up ready to strike. The remaining vampires scattered out of harm's way.

"My apologies," he said, slowly lowering his blade. "Come. Let us finish this."

He strode off intent in exterminating the last of the flesh-creatures that might still linger, the vampires trailing after him.

With the demise of the spider-sirens the flesh-puppets put up little in the way of coordinated resistance. They had moved several floors down when he heard rustling from behind a closed door, one of many that lined this particular, anonymous corridor, the first sign of life they had spotted in a while.

Suspicious!

The door crumpled under his fist revealing a small group of terrified and elderly, witches and wizards who were all doing their best to look as fierce as possible.

"You must be losing your touch Albus," one of the witches snapped, "that thing splintered like matchwood."

Carrow watched in faint amusement as Dumbledore stifled a sigh and managed to not roll his eyes, looking up at him with a tight smile.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

They were being overwhelmed; Timothy knew it in his bones as he fought desperately to survive, down to just his sword now, having long since run out of ammunition.

His body ached, his blade a leaden weight hanging off an arm that felt as if it were made of soggy noodles, and still the creatures pressed forward, lunging at him in a forest of talons, spikes, claws, razor teeth.

He was slowing, his body sluggish and uncooperative seemingly more interested in sleep than actually staying alive, and for the first time in a while he was genuinely scared. It was entirely possible they weren't getting out of this alive.

A clawed hand shot out of the seething chaos nearly slashing his face open from side to side, his lurch to safety only just in time as heaved for breath, desperately trying to find space, time, to rest if only for a few seconds, but the creature pushed forward seeing an advantage, seeing weakness.

He tried to get the sword up in time but it was swept from his hands by a crushing blow that felt as if it had broken at least a few fingers. And then he was on his back, the thing over him, hot breath on his face, the scent of decaying meat filling his nostrils, claws pressing into his throat, his chest, crushing him…

The monster jerked, stumbling away, the pressure releasing from his chest, a terrified whine escaping from its jaws. Slowly he sat up to find the thing clumsily pawing at its face, at the long snout that had been grafted on to it, its still-human eyes filled with fear and pain.

Slowly, shakily, he climbed to his feet, but the flesh-monster made no move to attack him, instead stumbling away over its own feet as if it wasn't used to having so many limbs. It fetched up in an alcove, knocking over a statue of a witch posing with a globe of the world.

There was a rifle lying abandoned, lost at some point in the fight. Stiffly he bent down, scooping it up, checking it over. It seemed undamaged so he staggered over to the alcove.

"Can you understand me?" he asked.

The creature seemed beyond reason, panicking, clawing ribbons of meat off its own face.

Sighing Timothy kicked it in a leg. "Can you understand me?" he growled, ready to shoot the thing if it so much as twitched funny. The creature jerked, looking up at him with despair filled eyes, its tongue flopping oddly in its mouth, its jaw working as it squeaked and stuttered.

"Do you wish to end this?" Timothy asked, holding the rifle just a little firmer.

The creature let out a keening wail around the jagged remains of its teeth. Maybe there were words in there, pleading, but it could have been his imagination. He shot it in the head, watching dispassionately as it slumped to the floor, a lifeless heap of mismatched body parts.

He swayed on his feet, exhaustion dragging at him, awareness of his surroundings slowly filtering in as he turned to take in what had happened to his team.

Chuddy stood in the middle of the corridor, his face covered in sticky drying blood, brandishing his rifle like a club as a six-legged bird headed thing tried to attack him, but it seemed to be having coordination problems, stumbling over its feet, and Chuddy was easily beating it to death.

Athena and Juno both sported gashes, Athena clutching her side, breathing heavily as she leant against the wall for support, but still she was trying to carry on, shooting a meat-monster in the chest as it lunge-stumbled towards her.

Beyond them Bradely had his knife out, stabbing a horse-headed thing in the neck over and over, but the thing's neck was…

"Bradely," Timothy shouted, his voice coming out as a croak. "Bradely," he staggered towards the younger man who seemed beyond reason, caught up in his own panic. But chuddy and Juno got there first, brushing past him, grabbing Bradely and wrestling him to the floor, pulling the knife from his grip.

"Wulfric?" Timothy turned on the spot, worry beginning to gnaw at him as the werewolf failed to materialise. "Wulfric?"

"Who saw him last?" Athena gasped as she attempted to drag herself to her feet from where she'd slumped to the floor.

"Oh shit," Chuddy darted forward heaving at the carcass of a four-legged monster, Juno racing to assist him. The creature was hideously deformed, its extra legs crudely stitched on, its spine looking as if it had been broken to form a crude approximation of a centaur.

Underneath…it looked like a bundle of bloody rags at first, but then…Timothy staggered over, heart in his mouth as he took in the state of his friend. "Is he…" the question froze on his lips.

Chuddy had crouched down, checking for a pulse, any signs of life. "He's breathing," he said. "Looks like he'd been put through a mincing machine."

"Lovely," Timothy grimaced, heart feeling just a little lighter.

Movement caught his eye and he spun, rifle coming up to fire as Auror Hewitt jerked to a halt in the corridor. Timothy almost didn't recognise him, his face was so battered and bloodied.

"You're alive," Auror Hewitt breathed a sigh of relief, his face quickly turning back to its normal scowl. "Bloody typical, you all survived." His gaze fell on Wulfric's unmoving form. "Oh shit," he exclaimed.

"No shit Sherlock," Chuddy growled, "you lot'd better have a healer or something. We've left ours behind."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"…poor knees aren't made for this sort of thing," Madam Bagshot complained for the hundredth time.

Carrow could feel the collective annoyance and tension from the various members of Dumbledore's little group. It would have been quite amusing it the situation hadn't been quite so serious.

They had managed to work their way back up to the Atrium where, Madam Bagshot had assured them, she would be able to find the old entrance stairs that would lead out to the muggle world that had been used before those _new fangled lifts_ had been installed.

Carrow hoped they were adequately sized.

The Atrium was as he had left it, a scene of carnage, the human dead now interspersed with the malformed corpses of the manufactured creatures, the stench of death filling the air, blood pooling and congealing on the tiled floor. He'd witnessed far worse, Carrow considered the carnage, ignoring the horrified gasps and shouts from behind him.

"Madam Bagshot, this disused exit," he boomed. "If you could point out the possible location t'would be most appreciated…" he paused, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

There was a resounding pop of displaced air as a group of people suddenly appeared in the middle of the Atrium stumbling slightly as their port-key dumped them in among the dead. Swathed in blood-red robes, they hid their faces behind masks resembling animals.

In their midst stood a woman. Also cloaked in blood-red, her face was bare, a pair of ram's horns rising up from her temples, curling around the sides of her head, her eyes gleaming with intelligence and madness.

Finally, the Dark Lady shows her face, Carrow advanced gleefully, sword held at the ready, warp-fyre dancing around his fingers, teeth bared in a parody of a smile.

The cloaked figures stiffened as they spotted him, drawing wands and other weapons in a frantic flurry of activity, but Carrow was already on them, a living maelstrom of violence, slicing into them without mercy. The vampires doing their duty, directing any escapees back towards him, protecting the defenceless civilians.

The new invaders fought with everything they had to protect their leader, flinging themselves on his blade rather than let him near her. And she let them, hunkering back, fiddling desperately with something; a coward then, or up to something dangerous. He pushed towards her, smashing masked figures out of his way.

" _Retreat, retreat_ ," she screamed, disappearing with a pop and rush of air.

Disgusted, Carrow turned his attentions towards her entourage, who desperately fled in similar fashion, leaving him feel distinctly cheated. He bellowed his rage over such spineless behaviour to an uncaring world.

"Boss… _Boss_ ," Caroline tired to catch his attention, waving her arms as she jumped and down on the spot.

"Here Boss," Annie's body language was far too cheerful. "Look, we've got one…alive." He could practically feel her grin.

There, lying at her feet, trembling, his blood-red robes torn, fox mask knocked askew, was a skinny looking man, with a scabby face and thinning hair. He stared up at them scared and defiant.

Always a silver lining, Carrow thought to himself, a terrifying smile spreading across his face.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"So, now we are all present, to quickly summarise, the situation is grim," Madam Bones looked grimly around this extremely informal and hurriedly put together meeting of the Ministerial heads. The head of the DMLE, Carrow noted, was sporting numerous minor injuries, her hands heavily bandaged.

"Substantial damage had been done to the physical structure of the Ministry… while numerous personnel are injured…or even dead…though thanks to Mr Carrow and his people the threat of the invading "creatures" has been dealt with severly…"

A shudder ran through the gathering of departmental heads.

"…then there is the matter of the muggle entrance, and its lift…"

The matter was grave indeed, Carrow considered for a moment, certainly as grave as these people had ever experienced.

"Currently, healers from St Mungo's, as well as every Auror I can spare are working together to rescue both the dead and the injured from the broken muggle-entry lift," Bones continued. "We are still investigating what caused this horrific incident…though Unspeakable Croaker may be able to give some initial impressions as to the possible cause…"

The grey swathed figure in their midst started slightly as it suddenly became the centre of attention; so not perfect at hiding all personal tells, Carrow thought, as he watched in interest, lightly drumming his fingers on his helm that currently hung from his belt.

"We have given the matter some consideration," Croaker said, its voice artificially cloaked to the point of neutrality. "It is important to remember that the space all the lifts of the Ministry inhabit is produced entirely by magical means, with much charm work used to move the lifts along the shafts."

Croaker cleared its throat nervously, "it became rapidly clear when assisting in the extraction of victims from the shaft that…some families had been visiting the Ministry at the time of this serious incident. It is entirely possible that a number of the young children, fearing for their lives, had fits of accidental magic that reacted rather unfortunately with the charm-work of the lifts and…"

"Oh Throne," Timothy groaned quietly. Carrow looked down at the young man a moment. He too was marked by his run-in with the invading creatures, his face covered in scratches and cuts, his uniform looking distinctly battered. He also radiated worry, though he hid it well.

"As to the invading creatures," Madam Bones adjusted her monocle, glaring down at a parchment list a subordinate had presented her with. She glared up at him, "we have witnesses present who saw their creator arrive in the Atrium."

"Indeed," Carrow boomed, stepping forward slightly, ready to give his opinion on the entire matter.

"Not you," Bones snapped, "Chief Warlock Dumbledore."

Carrow huffed in annoyance. He was sure his account of events would be just as adequate, if not better that the Chief Warlock's.

"I was indeed there," Dumbledore looked in distinct need of a change of robes and a good night's sleep. "She port-keyed in with a dozen followers. I do believe the…creatures were meant to incapacitate the Ministry as a whole, a softener if you will…"

"She meant to take over the Ministry," Glossop snapped, his expression appalled. Glossop and his underlings had barricaded their department and protected it with everything they had in an effort to keep the financial records of the Ministry from harm.

Which said something about the nature of accountancy, Carrow mused.

"A takeover bid," Cornelius Fudge squeak. He had been discovered hiding in the Department of Mysteries, where a number of staff members had been given shelter behind their hefty protective wards.

Everyone turned to glare at the annoying little man, who seemed quite oblivious. "I won't allow it," he tried to inflate himself, which had looked distinctly more impressive before he'd lost so much weight. Now…

"I do not think Cornelius," Dumbledore said, "you should be the one to talk about denying take-over bids."

Carrow blinked as the attention now turned to him.

"Don't stop me Albus," Cornelius blustered, obviously frustrated at being so lightly brushed off. "Carrow you know where this…this Dark Lady is, don't you…" he didn't even wait for a reply. "We need to be decisive, show people we won't tolerate this sort of thing in the slightest."

The various department heads and other hangers on were glaring at him now, hissing at him to _shut up_ , trying to distract him, but he was oblivious.

"Stop her Carrow. Give her what for. Throw everything you've got at her. Make an example of her," Fudge glared up at him, puffed up with indignation, frightened of this threat to his office.

"Shut up Cornelius," Bones growled.

Carrow's smile broadened, full of teeth. "But of course Minister. I will do exactly as you request."


	10. Chapter 10

_Harry Potter is owned by J K Rowling while WH40K is the property of GamesWorkshop. The bits in between belong to me._

 _Thank-you to my fantastic beta who has carefully checked my commas for signs of cruelty._

* * *

Author's Note

To my readers, I hope you and yours, families, loved ones, are safe and well during these interesting times in which we find ourselves.

Who thought going into 2020 that we would end up here, in the middle of a global pandemic, furloughed from work, stuck at home, only able to go out once a day for essential reasons only.

Looking at the news this morning (08/05/20), it appears here in the UK, that we're probably in for another three weeks of lockdown with restrictions gradually relaxing back to some semblance of normalcy. Unless of course there's a second spike in cases. What with one thing and another (locusts anyone?), 2020 just seems to be turning into a really crazy awful year for natural disasters.

Anyway, this is the last chapter of Phoenix Fiasco. There will also be an epilogue which I am currently working on.

Again I hope you are all keeping safe and well, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

The bright sunshine did nothing to lift the bleakness of his mood as the port-key dumped them down in a patch of scrubby wasteland, dotted with elder trees, buddleias and broken concrete.

Typical post-industrial wasteland complete with the obligatory railway in the background, Timothy grimaced as he watched a small two carriage train rattle past. This Dark Lady had chosen well it seemed, and now here they were to make her day as miserable as possible.

Or he hoped so, exhaustion pulling at his limbs, threatening to weigh him down. He shook it off, giving Carrow a glare on principle as he strode past, his power armour gleaming in the sunshine, looking even more incongruous than normal, a small blue beetle glinting as it…she, clung to the decorative trim of a pauldron.

He wished Skeeter much joy going with the annoying man, who was clearly still fresh as a daisy, the vampires jogging in his wake as he led them up to the security fencing near to their target, the feed belt on the replacement rotator canon swaying as he walked.

"The Big Guy's not taking any chances," Chuddy muttered, eyeing the large weapon.

"Can't say I blame him," Juno whispered back.

Carrow barely even paused at the fence, simply shoving his armoured fingers in between the galvanised uprights, pushing them aside with ease as he made a gap large enough for him to climb through, the others pouring through after him.

The particular industrial unit the Dark Lady had set her operations up in was on the end of an isolated row of unloved looking brick-faced units, all of them with faded steel shutters and leaking weed-filled guttering.

Hopefully the isolation would play into their hands, Timothy thought as he and his team darted down the side of the building, their target the rear fire-exit surveillance had flagged. Desperate to get into place before someone chanced to look out of a window and witnessed Carrow lurking outside.

The fire-exit had once been painted red, but so much had flaked off, it was now more a dull steel-grey.

They crouched beside it, waiting for Carrow's signal, pale and tired, all of them, Chuddy, Juno, Bradely and himself, sporting injuries, faces unusually grim, the missing team members all too obvious. Timothy sighed to himself as he shifted, gripping his weapons more firmly, of course now they were all exhausted things were bound to go to hell.

He pushed that train of thought firmly away, couldn't afford to be distracted or he'd end up in the bed next to Wulfric at St Mungo's.

oOo

Carrow barred his teeth, blood thrumming at the thought of combat. Bringing the rotator cannon to bear, he fired several short bursts through the flimsy steel roller door that marked the main entrance of this small manufactorium unit.

The faint sound of music and chatter from within abruptly ceased, drowned out by the blessed roar of the cannon…then deafening silence, then faint sobbing, screams…

Shoving his fingers under the roller door, he heaved it up, the thin metal buckling out of shape with a scrunching, tearing, squeal. The vampires poured into the space beyond, quick dark figures with their guns at the ready, intent on revenge for their fallen comrades.

Striding after them, he took in the scramble of people trying to get away, tripping and stumbling over their fallen fellows, the jumble of plywood that partially filled the space, blood smeared on the floor, abandoned equipment…

A heavy load slammed into his side, almost causing him to stumble, rotten bony hands of something not quite human scrabbling at his armour. Carrow bared his teeth in a wild feral grin, blood roaring for the fight.

oOo

The strangers had arrived with a resounding pop just as Ernie had been carefully manoeuvring the fork-lift truck across the yard with its precious cargo of spare parts.

He'd thought it was some bloody kids larking about with fireworks in the middle of the day, but when he'd looked round to give them a piece of his mind he'd been brought up quite short.

The small gathering of dark figures were menacing in their way, but what really took his breath away was the armoured giant in their midst, clearly designed for violence. It must have weighed easily as much as his Renault Clio if he were any judge…except his Clio weren't near so graceful, so cat-like in its movements…the way it tore the security fence apart like damp cardboard, letting its companions stream into the yard, some of whom sported gleaming skull-like masks he saw with increasing alarm…and that fence had survived without so much as a dent when Dan had backed the van into it…

"Ern…come _on_ , Ernie, we need to get out of here," Frank hissed as he sidled round the fork lift, trying not to attract the attention of the armed nutters.

Ernie just sat there mouth open as he stared at the invaders. To Frank's horror, the giant armoured robot thing lifted up an enormous gun that wouldn't have looked out of place mounted on a tank or helicopter or something, and took aim at the steel roller doors of the unit several doors down.

"Come on," Frank said through gritted teeth, grabbing Ernie and bodily yanking him from his seat in the forklift. Scrambling, they ran towards the sanctuary of the workshop. Frank hammered on the button to lower the roller blind, holding the button down with a trembling hand. "Come on, come on," he growled as the thing crawled down at a snail's pace.

"Don't just bloody stand there," he snapped at Dan who was wasting time peering out at the crazy people, "ring the bloody police!"

oOo

The roar of the rotator cannon was unmistakable. With a jab of his wand, Timothy vanished the fire-door leaving a dark rectangle. Chuddy dived through first, closely followed by Juno.

He charged into the dark space, Bradely's heavy footsteps following him, ducking instinctively behind a shrink-wrapped pallet stacked with cardboard boxes, only to find himself nose to nose with a young woman wearing a grubby lab coat over jeans and a cat jumper. She screamed, clearly terrified out of her wits, turned tail, bolting in the opposite direction before Timothy could grab her, disappearing through a gap in the industrial shelving.

"Bloody…" he growled to himself. "Get her, before she warns someone."

In the distance they could clearly hear the sounds of Carrow doing battle with something large and angry.

"I think the horse might have bolted on that one," Chuddy said as he glanced around at the store room. "Wonder what this is all about."

Timothy blinked as he looked around properly, taking in the contents of the shelving, the long table set up for packing small glass jars of bright coloured boiled-sweets, but the place stunk like a fusty old potions lab.

"What the Throne is this all about?" he said, horror slowly building, because he knew exactly what this was about. "They were about to flood the magical world with some sort of recreational drug…"

Juno edged around another pallet, this one partially packed. "Maybe they were going to let them loose on the Muggle world as well. This would be kind of cute looking at a music festival or something," she gave a jar a little prod.

Timothy considered it. Potentially it would be a nice little money spinner, raising funds for all the Dark Lady's plans. And wasn't the thought of that horrifying.

He gave the deserted space a last glance, following Chuddy through the gap lab-coat girl had disappeared through. It turned out to be a crude doorway, crudely tacked together from plywood off-cuts, its surface scratched up and battered.

It led into another storage area filled with cages, familiar from previous lab raids, stacked to the ceiling, but fortunately these ones were all empty, if not particularly clean.

"Err, Boss," Juno said from behind him, and he turned to find her and Bradely standing in the crude doorway still, looking at it with concern.

"Bradely thinks these scratches might be runes of something," Juno said.

Bradely nodded, his already pale complexion turning a sickly colour, uncomfortable at being the centre of attention.

"I'll just stay here then shall I," Chuddy grumbled by the room's other exit.

The scratches, now he thought about it, definitely did have a pattern, though what it was he couldn't remember off the top of his head, his exhausted mind insisting that he should stop being cruel to it and do something sensible, like go to sleep.

So he went and inspected the other exit too, peering round an annoyed Chuddy, finding the same pattern of scratching. Hadn't he tried something like this once when he'd just managed to get his very first flat, the one that barely had a bathroom, but it had had a tiny useless closet and he'd…

"Space expansion," he grinned in triumph, ignoring the painful pull of his scars. "They've built lots of tiny rooms out of plywood in a muggle warehouse then expanded them all."

"Oh bloody hell," Chuddy grimaced. "This place is going to be a bloody warren."

"What…what if they get damaged?" Bradely asked.

"Then you'll suddenly find yourself, and everything else in the room, trying to occupy a space the size of a phone-box," Timothy said. Which put some really grim implications on things.

"Ooh. Potentially crunch," Juno grimaced. "Nasty,"

"Quite. Shall we get on," he smiled tightly.

oOo

The artificial construct was based around the remains of a mountain troll, reinforced and augmented until it were capable of matching even his augmented strength.

Normally he'd have been flattered they had gone to all the trouble but currently he didn't have the time for such frippery.

For now he was unable to render aid to the Vampires as they under took the process of clearing out the nearby office, the only bit of the building's content he could see that looked original, its breeze-block walls left unpainted, fighting, struggling figures visible through the office window.

But he was stuck tussling with the animated corpse of a creature too stupid to know it was dead, and far too dim to even put up a proper fight; he forced it round again through sheer physical force, trying to stop the annoying thing from pinning his arms in place, the jumble of plywood spinning past as he attempted to bring the rotator cannon to bear.

Someone had installed a greenhouse in among the wooden jumble, filling it with complicated looking glassware and jars of magical ingredients and chemicals.

The reanimated troll pulled him closer, trying to clutch him to its fetid chest, so he head-butted it, the things' orbital bones snapping with a satisfying crack, its hold loosening.

A commotion erupted behind him, as the fighting in the office erupted out into the unit proper, the windows and surrounding wall erupting out in a cloud of debris, leaving a gaping hole and an expanding cloud of dust through which he could see the body heat of struggling people.

Quickly he twisted in the troll's grip heaving it off its feet, neatly tossing it over his shoulder and into the greenhouse, a look of surprise slowly crossing its stupid face.

The greenhouse exploded with a resounding crash, glass shards peppering its surroundings as the lab blew up with surprising force, purple flames licking across the re-animated troll's torso as it twitched and screamed among the wreckage, the frame of the greenhouse piercing its body effectively pinning it in place.

Pulling the rotator canon round, Carrow ended its miserable existence in a sharp burst of fire, turning the miserable creature's head and upper torso into so much mulch.

Turning, he lunged into the cloud of debris, its nature clearly unnatural as it failed to disperse, instead cloaking the figures within as they tried to make their escape.

A body hit his chest, the unfortunate man peeling off, slumping to the floor completely senseless as the cloud suddenly dispersed revealing the Dark Lady in all her twisted glory.

She paled at the sight of him, taking off like a scalded rabbit, even as he gave chase. As she plunged into the plywood maze his fingers just brushed the back of her robes as she darted round around a corner.

Fuming he tried to following but the corridor was small, even for a normal sized person, and then that was when he felt it just for an instance, the unpleasantly familiar stench, the insatiable and unnatural hunger of Chaos.

Ah. So he was fighting the same old enemy after all.

Turning he found the vampires just finishing dealing with the last of their attackers, sending their trussed forms back to the DMLE with the dedicated port-keys that had been provided for the occasion.

Except for one, the unfortunate who had met his chest plate was still lying on the ground groaning in pain, his blood-red robes crumpled around him. A member of the Dark Lady's inner circle maybe. He flipped the man onto his back with a none too gentle foot.

The man had broken his nose and was sporting the beginnings of two beautiful black eyes, eyes unfocused but still very much alive.

"You are going to listen closely," Carrow said his voice almost gentle as he crouched next to the unfortunate. "I have many questions, and you are going to answer them, whether willing or not."

Terrified, desperate eyes stared up at him. "I won't talk," the man snarled, fear colouring his voice.

Carrow's smile broadened, "You won't have to."  
oOo

Most of the rooms they passed through proved to be either for storage, or abandoned in some way, stuffed with so much rubbish little more than a passage remained, piles of junk looming on either side, the broken furniture and other detritus coated in some sort of mental grime that brushed off on them as they searched this place for...searched it for…

"Boss," Athena hissed, "haven't we been past that pile of chairs before?"

"It isn't just me then," Chuddy said, glancing back at them.

Timothy shook himself, glancing around as if for the first time, heart racing. Stupid, _stupid_ trap, and he'd fallen for the sodding thing.

"Err…boss," Bradely stuttered, face pale in the dim light, "can you hear…"

Shouts or screams, laughter if you were being charitable.

"Let's go," Timothy urged them forward.

They followed him, barely able to hide their relief, at least no one commented when he aimed a kick at one of the blasted junk chairs as they went past.

The desperate scream laughter led them deeper into the plywood maze, voices joining the manic din. They burst into a much larger room, a lab full of cages, these ones filled with occupants, several unfortunates hanging from the ceiling by hooks through their ankles.

Among the cages, working at benches were various lab technicians now staring at them in shock, including a woman Timothy assumed was the supervisor. She had been deep in an argument with the cat-jumper wearing lady they'd been chasing.

So sad he had to interrupt them.

"Hands up and on your knees," Timothy bellowed, as the others fanned out around him, moving towards the lab workers, their rifles ready for any trouble makers.

The technicians had frozen, some complying straight away, relief or resignation visible on their faces, cat-jumper lady among them, others putting up brief fights while his team slapped the anti-apparition and port-key bracelets on them, the lab slowly emptying in a series of pops of displaced air.

Around them the people trapped in the cages cried for help, or shouted encouragement in rasping voices, others watching silently from their miserable prisons.

"We're doing great work here, important work and…"

"What?" Chuddy snorted, incredulous at the sheer delusion of this particular individual, "kidnapping people and then torturing them?"

"Come quietly or things will get nasty for you," Athena barked, edging forward ready to shoot the idiot.

"You're all brainwashed," the man stared at them, apparently desperate that they should see his point of view. "We're making a new race here…" his sneaked towards a pocket even as he edged further away from them.

"…improving what humanity can be…" he slung a small glass jar towards Athena, but she managed to bat it away with her rifle, the jar clattering to the floor failing to break, its contents sloshing wildly as it rolled towards a bank of cages.

The man looked at it horrified, tried reaching for his wand instead, but skinny, dirty arms had reached through the cage he'd back into, grabbing at him, the back of his robes, his ankles, a sleeve. He flailed desperately a moment trying to fight of the clasping hands dropping his wand in the struggle.

It rolled away, along the row of cages, until a skinny gleefully snatched it up, the cage's occupant snapping the wand with slow deliberation in front of its owner.

"What…what…" the man stuttered in outrage as Chuddy put the anti-apparition band in place around his wrist. "You can't do this to me!" he snarled.

"Tell that to the DMLE," Timothy smiled sweetly, his smile only growing when the bastard flinched back.

Athena quickly placed the port-key band on.

"But…" the man stared at him in shock, disappearing with a sharp pop and a small gust of air.

"Let us out…please," a voice rasped from a cage, its owner rattling the bars in desperation. "You can't leave us here…please?"

Other voices joined in filling the dank laboratory with a discordant chorus of desperation.

"We can't leave them," Juno shouted over the racket, "we can't…not really."

Timothy nearly groaned, but she was right. Leaving these people here to suffer for even a moment longer, it really wasn't an option. He strode towards a cage, struggling with the lock a moment. Finding these ones far more secure, and not wanting to waste any more time than necessary, he resorted to just vanishing the entire front, moving to the next as the others helped these victims from their confinement, all painfully thin, malnourished, some having already suffered alterations to their physical forms, not always successfully, all of them naked and dirty, leading to a desperate hunt for something, anything to cover them with so they didn't freeze.

And in the distance, just for a moment, a beat of his heart, came the familiar rot-stench, of all-corrupting taint.

Oh bloody hell, Timothy thought as he mentally jerked away from it, slamming protections in place. If that was the ultimate cause of all this…he dreaded to think what would happen if this Dark Lady could actually call forth such forces.

They were beginning to pass the cage victims out to safety. Now clad in an ill assortment of lab-coats, hastily transfigured blankets and purloined coats, they made a strange procession.

"Aurors," a distant bellow came.

"Typical," Chuddy muttered, "bloody late as usual."

The blanket wrapped man he was pushing along on an office chair coughed with laughter.

Auror Hewitt appeared from the gloom of the junk filled room, blinking in surprise as he took in the dozen or so misfortunates and their wretched appearance, his expression horrified until his professional mental shields slammed into place. Timothy almost felt sorry for him.

"They need medical attention, all of them. Take over for us," he said. "We need to get further into that. This Dark Lady, she's in league with the _usual_."

"What," Chuddy looked at him sharply, the others looking equally grim.

"I felt it," Timothy explained, heading back towards the lab and the further depths of the plywood maze, "just for a moment."

"Hey. What about this…" Hewitt called out behind them. "You can't just abandon…"

"Should have got here faster," Chuddy muttered as they charged down a short corridor and into the next artificially expanded room.

oOo

The grubby little underling had known very little, he was hired muscle after all, but he had glimpsed things, a secret room accessed through a miserably small hatch in the floor.

Though the idea that they were going to flood the magical market with highly addictive recreational drugs was a little puzzling; a morally dubious way to raise funds to be sure but he was pretty certain that they would have had little joy with it, the market having already been cornered by some of his own employees experimenting and making a little money on the side…the rabbit lady and her friends if the rumour-mill had it right.

No matter.

He shoved forward pushing aside plywood and cheap pine supports, the rickety structure creaking and cracking around him, rooms attempting to snap closed on him, until he shouldered their flimsy shell out of his way.

It was a pity he'd had to leave the rotator canon behind, guarded by Methuselah, the thought of dragging its bulk through this maze had not appealed to him, and so now he would be relying on sword, pistol, his warp-craft and the grace of the God-Emperor, intent as he was on a discoloured steel trapdoor.

Because the underling had known exactly one useful thing, before he had turned his mind to so much mush, the location of this Dark Lady's most prized possession.

A book.

A book of such dark and twisted magic, such enticing enchantments it held her utterly enthralled.

There, a small plain room, he punched a hand through a flimsy wall as it tried snapping shut on him, sweeping the debris out of his way as he stepped into the utterly inadequate space, a stained metal rectangle set into its floor.

The handle was designed for dainty little fingers, almost impossible to for him to grip. Giving it up as a bad job he punched his fingers through the God-Emperor cursed thing, ripping the entire mess away, tossing it off into the surrounding debris.

He tried ripping away at the edge of the trapdoor but the space below was magically created and he could feel its very structure creaking under the onslaught. True, the witch would die if the room did collapse, but then how could she be held accountable for her numerous crimes.

He glared down into the little room, at the pathetic husk of the Dark Lady huddled on the floor, cradling the corrupted book in her arms as if it were a child, rocking and whispering to herself, to it. To his disquiet he could see the surface of its binding rippling as faces momentarily appeared, as well as other things…

Throwing himself down, he reached in, feeling around as best he could, fingers brushing against something solid that flinched at the contact. He grabbed it, ignoring the squealing wail as he yanked the pitiful woman from her bolthole.

She dangled from his fist, shrieking and twisting in the grip he had on one of her horns, the book still clutched desperately in her arms even as she tried to escape his grasp.

The effects of the chaotic artefact were clear to see in her sickly pallor, her wasted limbs, the way her facial features were beginning to warp and twist, her nose looking as if it had been smeared across her face, the pupils of her eyes an unsettling rectangle.

Carrow gave her a good shake, a gentle slap rendering her unconscious, knocking the noisome tome from her grip. He toed the disgusting thing back into the room, reluctant to touch it anymore than strictly necessary.

Tucking her under his arm, he began the chant to call forth the Emperor's Grace, its purifying fires.

Even through the gathering power he felt the God-Emperor's attention turn on him, like a search light, adding his strength to the growing surge of power. It was almost too much but he hung on, heedless of the blood now seeping from his nose.

A ghostly hand gripped his shoulder a moment, shoring him up, helping him gather the growing storm to him.

"Now," the God-Emperor's voice whispered in his ear, and so he let go.

oOo

"What the bloody hell," Juno screamed as she dodged a crumbling, snapping wall, kicking shattered plywood out of her way as she tried, as they all tried to get to safety.

In the distance they could hear something like a bull crashing through the artificially expanded spaces as it went, rooms suddenly jerking sideways as their neighbours suddenly snapped back to their natural size pulling everything around them along too in a chain reaction of snapping cheap pine and splintering plywood.

"It's bloody Carrow," Chuddy snarled, "it's got to be. Bloody bastard, barging in, not thinking…" His swearing became even more creative as some shearing plywood sideswiped him leaving behind needle like splinters.

"We need to get out of this," Timothy said, ducking as more of the wooden supports began to give way, shoving a group of cheap office chairs towards him. "But we need to make sure we go the correct way…maybe…"

"Decide fast," Juno snapped as she only just dodged a filing cabinet.

"There's more light this way," he gestured towards an unpromising pile of debris.

"And there's a breeze…" Bradely tentatively added.

"Bet that's from when the giant twat trashed the shutter," Juno growled shoving past a collapsed phone-box sized room that was leaning in on itself. "Let's go, please, before I decide kicking the big guy in the goollies is a smart career move."

"Might be a bloody queue," Chuddy muttered as he clambered over some loose broken plywood that hid a load of crumpled desks.

oOo

Timothy staggered out of the plywood maze, covered in splinters and dust, coughing and sneezing, the rest of his team stumbling out after him equally unhappy.

"Tim!" a familiar voice exclaimed.

He looked up to find Annie bearing down on him, the gold mask of her protective suit glinting in the sunlight that streamed in through the ruined shutter.

"Are you all right?" she asked as she approached, taking in their appearance. "You look like you've all been through the mill."

"Thanks," Chuddy gave her a tight smile as he tried to get rid of the worst of the splinters.

"I'm glad you're here," Annie said, glancing around nervously. "Things have got a little bit…well, you can see…" she gestured.

Timothy glanced beyond her, blinked in horror. "Oh Merlin," he groaned, almost wishing he was back in the maze of plywood even with Carrow.

Someone had called the police, who'd sent out the Armed Response Unit, who quite clearly weren't happy, what with the Aurors who had also turned up in force clad in their official red robes, and who were busily glaring back, fingering their wands.

Not to mention the rotator canon, currently being enthusiastically guarded by Methuselah. Fortunately the argument between the old vampire and the police appeared to be only verbal. So far.

And there appeared to have been another laboratory stashed away somewhere because more unfortunates had been pulled to safety and were now being tended to by, Timothy winced, muggle paramedics. He had to admit he was very impressed at their professionalism as they tended to people with surgically induced deformities, extra limbs grafted on that appeared fully functional, without so much as a flicker.

There in among the hunched blanket swathed figures of the lab escapees Rita was sat, her dicta-quill scratching its way across parchment as she interviewed several of the unfortunates, a women with at least four arms, wrapped in a foil blanket, gesticulating wildly as they talked.

Standing in the middle of all this chaos was Amelia Bones herself, looking particularly grim, deep in conversation with a man he could only assume was in charge of the non-magical police. Both looked distinctly uncomfortable with the entire situation, a situation he wanted nothing to do with.

Considering how much chaos there currently was, it was likely he could just fade into the background and leave Carrow to deal…

"Timothy!"

…or maybe not. The others hid their smiles, almost, Cuddy giving him a sympathetic clap on the back as he shuffled off to his doom.

"There you are Timothy," Bones glared at him, "I'm assuming you got the rest of the rooms in that mess clear."

The police officer glared at him suspiciously, expression increasingly incredulous as he took in his outfit, the blasted dolman, the stupid sash, the sword…

Unable to escape the inevitable Timothy shuffled over, feeling his doom hurtling toward him…no, that wasn't right. He jerked round staring towards the mutilated wood pile that had been rooms, unseeing, flinching back as he slammed his mental protection into place as hard as he could, the sensation of rage, of unnatural hunger, of stinking decay, filtering into his mind, muffled now…

"Timothy," Madam Bone's voice sounded distant "…are…okay…"

But there was a light growing, like a small sun, blazing, pure, growing…threatening to consume all…

"Oh bloody Throne!" Timothy snarled, physically jerking back, turning to the motley gathering. "Everybody down! NOW!" he roared, throwing himself to the ground, as around him people scrambled for the exit.

The blazing sun of power suddenly expanded, erupting violently into a pillar of blinding light that hammered upwards through the roof.

Overwhelmed, Timothy covered his head as best he could dazed and reeling as dust and pieces of roofing material fell around him as the roar of released power went on and on, screams and shouts barely audible over it.

And then it stopped, the silence shatteringly loud, dust and debris pattering down around.

Groaning, Timothy tried moving. Nothing seemed to hurt more than it should, and so he risked getting up, stumbling to his feet, to find the others pulling themselves to their feet also, brushing dust off, pulling debris away.

A thunderous, heaving crash came from the remains of the room-maze. Timothy jerked round, weapons at the ready, Chuddy and Juno crouching nearby, their rifles ready to fire at whatever. Nearby, the Aurors and armed police joined them…

Carrow emerged from the tangle of wooden debris, the limp body of a woman tucked under one arm, his normally pristine power armour dusty and scratched. The green lenses glared down at their disordered response with amusement.

"Excellent," the armoured monstrosity boomed. "Though I applaud you on your…readiness, I'm afraid the danger is over, for now."

Timothy allowed himself to relax slightly, Juno and Chuddy grumbling to one another under their breath as Carrow strode past, debris crunching to dust under his boots as he went.

"Ah, Madam Bones," Carrow boomed, "I have the miscreant safely in custody, alive I believe."

Timothy watched as Carrow proffered the unconscious women to the head of the DMLE, her sickly body hanging lifelessly form the giant's fist. Blood seeped sluggishly from her nose, one leg looked broken jutting at an odd angle.

Madam Bones looked torn between relief and shouting at the giant idiot, her muggle counterpart looking utterly horrified.

" _Cornwall_ ," one of the muggle police people snarled pointing an accusing finger. " _You're_ the one responsible for that bloody mess. Don't know what you did to that mine but the bloody place is still on bloody fire…"

Timothy could only groan in frustration, as all around him pandemonium broke out. Later he could only put it down the level of distraction, the accusations and recriminations being thrown around, and an actual attempt at arresting Carrow (a memory he would treasure for ever) that the minion of the Dark Lady had nearly got away.

"Look," Juno hissed, jabbing him in the ribs, "I swear he just crawled out of the rubble."

Timothy glanced where she was gesturing, catching a glimpse of dirty blood-red robes ducking behind a fallen chunk of roofing, popping up again closer to the shutter.

Instincts yammering at him that this one was up to no good he followed cautiously, dodging around a clump of Aurors who were busily admiring the argument between Carrow and the muggle police.

"You! Stop where you are," he roared as he broke into a jog shoving past some armed police, skipping round busy paramedics, but the strange wizard predictably ignored him, ducking through the broken shutter.

Snarling, Timothy dodged after him just in time to see the man duck through the hole Carrow had made in the security fence, swearing a storm as his robe caught on sharp metal, yanking it free with a nasty tearing sound. Timothy dived through after him, nearly tripping over a loose lump of concrete.

Haring across the scrubby wasteland, he scrambled over a chain-link fence and shoved his way through the screen of leylandii that had been planted on the other side. Timothy heaved himself over, and shoved through the trees as quickly as he could, the branches scratching and tugging at his hair and clothing, and out into the car-park of a large out-of-town shopping centre.

Desperation lending him speed, Timothy took off after him, keeping low as the wizard began to slow down to a trot and then a quick walk as he attempted to blend in with the wary shoppers. Until, of course, he looked back over his shoulder.

Snarling in frustration, Timothy could only watch as the man slammed through the double doors, their automatic opening mechanism too slow to keep up with him, bowling people over in his wake.

The shopping centre seemed to be a mid-eighties affair with "fun" pastel coloured fittings in geometric shapes to enliven its otherwise generic design. Sort of pseudo classical, Timothy thought distractedly, as he dodged around a family with a double buggy.

Heaving for breath, the escapee was obviously beginning to panic, looking around wildly for an escape route in such unfamiliar territory…and then he tried running up the escalator. Not familiar with them, he stumbled, falling flat on his face, pulling himself up and scrambling the rest of the way.

Timothy charged after him, taking the steps two at a time, desperate to catch this person before he could do something dangerous. The man, only yards away now, exhausted and beyond desperate, was actively panicking. Snarling, he grabbed the nearest shopper, a middle-aged man who obviously enjoyed his food. Grabbing him around the neck, he spun round, wand stabbing painfully into the sweating man's neck, shoppers scrambling out of the way, shouts and screams as they begun to realise the danger of the situation.

"Stay back," the wizard snarled, "I'll do it…I really will."

Timothy didn't even hesitate, the blue warp-fyre pooling in the palm of his hand with barely a thought. With a flick of his wrist he flung it at the wizard. The moment it left his hand, he realised his mistake, the eyes of the muggle going wide with shock. But it was too late, the small ball of blue fyre hit the wizard in the right shoulder, moving through flesh and bone alike, the smell of burnt bacon wafting into the air as the wizard collapsed to the floor with a terrible scream, leaving his shaken captive standing there, gawping like a dazed fish.

Oh _Merlin_ … _the Statute of Secrecy_ …

Stomach feeling as if it had just been plunged into the depths of the Antarctic, all he could do was carry on. "Excuse me, please," he said, face rigid as he held in the gibbering horror that threatened to overwhelm him. The traumatised muggle just stared at him uncomprehending, so Timothy stepped round him. The escapee lay groaning on the floor, clutching at his wounded shoulder, so he pulled him by the good arm, collecting his wand and patting him down for any more concealed weapons. The last thing he wanted at the moment was a fight with a desperate idiot armed with a knife. Heaving the still uncooperative and swearing prisoner round, he found the one person he didn't want to see coming up the escalator.

Why was it always _him_.

"Ah, Auror Hewitt," Timothy hid his grimace, "I do believe this fine gentleman is yours to deal with."

"What the bloody hell did you chase him in here for?" Auror Hewitt hissed, glancing around suspiciously, clearly uncomfortable surrounded by so many muggles.

"I didn't," Timothy snapped feeling quite indignant, as if he'd do something so bloody stupid. Auror Hewitt sneered as he and a colleague secured the prisoner, stalking off with the still struggling man, aided by some of the armed police, as the entire ruddy circus descended.

He went and slumped on a bench leaving them to it, oblivious to the scandalised looks an old lady and her friend were giving him, shock giving way to hysterical calm, exhaustion pulling at his bones now he wasn't racing around doing stupid things. It would be so pleasant if he could just stay here a moment, not have to move, not have to deal with this gigantic mess.

Hands grabbed him under his arms, hauling him to his feet, and he suddenly found himself being dragged to a sprawling balcony café by Chuddy and Juno, Bradely following behind.

The café staff looked appalled at their sudden appearance. He couldn't blame them really; the others were dirty, covered in dust, sporting small injuries, and hauling weapons, and he doubted he looked much better. Though an abortive attempt by the café to pretend they were shut was a little too much.

Chuddy shoved him none too gently into a chair with a good view of the floor below, the motley collection of Aurors and police officers now in some sort of argument with the shopping centre management, being gawked at by bewildered shoppers.

Before him coffee appeared, closely followed by plates of sandwiches.

"Eat," Juno prodded him.

He needed little instruction, his appetite suddenly kicking into gear with a vengeance, the sandwiches seeming to evaporate before him, so quickly he barely tasted them.

"Glad that's all over," Juno said, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. "Can't wait to get home and have a shower. Get rid of some of this ruddy dust. Should we be worrying about asbestos?"

"Vanishing spell," Timothy muttered around the last of the sandwich. "Should get rid of the worst…hopefully."

"A bath." Chuddy announced, "I'm having a bloody bath, nice and hot. Soak all the dust out."

"You think…" Bradely said, "do you think they've got cake?"

"Excellent idea that man," Chuddy said.

Bradely bounced up from his seat with a happy smile, Juno following after him back to the counter demanding something involving cream.

Timothy startled at the nudge to his ribs.

"What's getting you down…other than the obvious," Chuddy asked, looking at him with a surprising amount of concern.

"Sleep…just need sleep," Timothy sighed. "I used magic in front of muggles," he blurted out. "I didn't think, I just reacted, I…"

Chuddy blinked a moment, snorting with laughter. "Really? The big man blew the roof off an industrial building with just the power of his giant ego, in front of all those people…and you're worried about…what was it? One of your little fire-ball things?"

"But…" Timothy started to argue back, but his brain refused to cooperate. There was definitely some sort of flaw to Chuddy's logic but he was far too tired to make the effort to work it out.

And then cake appeared in front of him, a Danish pastry stuffed with fruit and glazed with so much sugar he could practically hear his pancreas screaming in horror.

"Eat your cake," Juno told him. "Whatever you're stressing about, let Carrow deal with it," she jabbed her chocolate éclair with a fork.

"Done your share," Bradely said around a mouthful of crumbs.

Carrow dealing with it…that's what he was worried about, he muttered to himself, but they weren't taking any notice of him.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Someone had managed to winkle the Minister out from whatever bolt-hole he'd crawled into after his "act" of bravery. They'd also divested him of the cheap whisky that his nose insisted the man had been indulging in, and now the pathetic little lump was slumped down in his official chair as Minister of Magic, barely aware of his surroundings, a far cry from his passionate entreaties to " _make an example_ " only that morning, barely even twelve hours ago. So much had happened so quickly, such a pleasant change…

"Gentle witches and wizards," Dumbledore's artificially enhanced voice echoed around the chambers of the Wizengamot, the nervous chatter of the gathered assembly dying away. "We will begin this emergency meeting of the Wizengamot with three minutes of silence in memorial of those who have perished within this building under such terrible circumstances."

Fitting, Carrow thought from where he stood by the Minister's seat, still clad in his armour, still stained from the battles of the day. And he wasn't the only one, he saw as he surveyed the silent gathering, many of whom had bowed their heads in respect. Those who had been present during the Ministry attack were still in rumpled clothing, some of it still sporting damage, bandages and minor injuries clearly visible, Dumbledore still had blood in his beard, and Timothy, standing beside him, was, despite his best efforts covered in dust, swaying on his feet from exhaustion.

Of the rest, many appeared to have been on their way to bed when they had received the summons for an emergency meeting, resulting in a wide variety of nightwear to be visible, peeking from under hastily thrown on official robes.

The silence dragged on, broken only by the odd sniffle, a choking cough as someone covered up a sob. These were people not used to adversity, their reactions one of shock and horror, when really the violent invasion and the problem with the lift were no worse than a minor riot he'd witnessed in the main hive-city on Civitas IV. He was obviously going to have to work harder at toughening them up…

"Thank-you," Dumbledore broke the silence. "Now, on to the first order of business of this emergency meeting of the Wizengamot…"

"Yes, the first order of business," Madam Bones butted in, ignoring Dumbledore's glare completely. "I do believe it is high time for us to reinstate Mr Carrow as Senior Under-Secretary. He had been given his medical clearance, so now it is time for us to regain Mr Carrow's singular, and solid, presence…"

Fudge stirred from his stupor long enough to give him a terrified glance, a susurration of noise building as the gathering began voicing their opinions.

Dumbledore looked like he'd swallowed a lemon for a moment. "Indeed. Though Mr Faulks had been doing a most excellent job, I agree it is time Mr Carrow returned to this most august body."

Carrow smiled as he was sworn back in with the minimum of fuss, Timothy gladly relinquishing the role, his face almost grey he was so exhausted.

"Go home," Carrow growled to him under cover of the polite applause that had broken out. "Rest."

Timothy glared up at him. "I'm fine…but I will sit down." Turning, he stalked away to an empty place on the benches near Madam Bones, slumping down with a barely perceptible groan, sagging when he seemed to feel no one was watching.

The Senior Warlock called the gathering to order then. "And now for our second order of business…the invasion of the Ministry. As I am sure you are all aware, work continues even as we speak to free the trapped and injured in the Atrium, the DMLE, healers from St Mungo's, and many, many volunteers from the magical community, all working together to save the lives of our colleagues, friends, families…"

Dumbledore paused a moment, seeming to need to gather himself, "work is also underway to unblock the old stairway entrance to the muggle world, thanks to the sharp memory of Madam Bagshot who was able to lead us to its location. This is helping to facilitate the evacuation of the injured…and the deceased…"

"What about this Dark Lady," someone shouted from the back. "I heard tell she's been captured."

Whispers erupted as Dumbledore glared up at the mass of seated Wizengamot members, adjusting his glasses. "That is indeed true. She is currently being held by…"

But whatever he was about to say as the Wizengamot erupted, members and department heads leaping to their feet, as they loudly proclaimed their opinions on what exactly shout be done with this most reviled of prisoners, summary execution for the main, how terribly predictable…and dull.

"DESIST," he bellowed, the resulting silence ringing.

"Thank-you Senior Under-Secretary," Dumbledore said. "As I was saying, we have the perpetrator of the attack on the Ministry, and many of her co-conspirators, in Ministry custody, thanks to the quick actions of Mr Carrow."

"Execute them," a shout came from the back, to much approval.

"Give them the Kiss!"

"Push them through the Veil!"

"We'll be doing no such thing," Madam Bones bellowed. "She, and all her underlings will be given trials. _Fair_ trials. In the face of such heinous actions, justice needs to be done, but it needs to be thorough, transparent, not some knee-jerk reaction. I for one, have no desire to see a repeat of the mess that occurred at the end of the last war."

Some of the more level-headed began to settle down, but there was still an undercurrent of dissatisfaction. He made a note of their names and faces, for future reference.

"I heard tell," another voice shouted out, "that _muggles_ were involved in the arrest."

Bones was giving him a very pointed glare as derisive muttering swept across the gathering.

"That is correct. Non-magical law enforcement did assist with the arrest of the Dark Lady and her minions," he strode forward into the centre of the floor. "As well as a number of paramedics, medicae specialised in emergency medicine in the field," he added as many of the members stared at him blankly. "Their assistance was much appreciated…"

There were a few derisive snorts and smothered laughter, cloaked mutters…

"… _little more than children…"_

"… _stupid savages…"_

"… _helpless, what could they possibly do…"_

"...as it will be, in the future," he glared the naive idiots daring them to object, but of course they did, the brighter ones quickly realising the implications of his statement, their voice shrill, more joining in as they caught on but Dumbledore called them to silence like the bunch of rowdy children they were busily imitating.

"The capture of this Dark Lady is not the end," he growled, staring up at the crowd of bewildered faces, his godfather's face a pale worried oval among the sea of maroon robes and badly concealed pyjamas.

"She has significant links to the non-magical crime world, which need to be dealt with, hence building a cordial working relationship with regular law-enforcement who have the expertise…"

"Isn't this a violation of the Statute of Secrecy?" a wizened voice demanded.

Carrow looked across to find one of the older members of the Wizengamot standing, glaring down at him with thinly veiled distrust. Ah, Linnaeus Acerbus, a cantankerous old traditionalist who lived out of sheer spite.

"They have all sworn oaths of secrecy," Bones snapped. "On top of all the other oaths of discretion and secrecy they already follow as part of their professional duties."

"Whatever that means," Acerbus sneered against a background of whispers, "Still I notice there is no mention of the violation of the Statute Mr Faulks is directly involved in. Will he not answer questions?"

To Carrow's faint amusement Timothy had slumped down further on the bench, his head tilted forward, chest rising and falling gently as he slept, overcome by exhaustion.

"It appears Mr Faulks will not be answering questions," Madam Bones said.

"Typical," Acerbus said, his disgust plain. "Young people, always skirting their responsibilities…"

"I can assure you _Sir,_ " Carrow growled, "that Mr Faulks has done much to earn his rest..."

" _Gentlemen_ ," Dumbledore interrupted. "If we can continue with the meeting please."

Acerbus grumbled to himself but sat back down. Carrow ignored him.

And so the arguing and bickering went on for another excruciating hour as he and Bones attempted to drum up a vague understanding of what was going on into their thick stubborn insular heads, aided and abetted occasionally by Dumbledore…

There was also the small matter of the book. Who had given it to her, a clearly tainted artefact? Was this deliberate…or had she acquire it by accident…but his instincts screamed this was no random incident, that this had been an attempt at producing another infection similar to those he'd already destroyed.

This was the work of that God-Emperor cursed Chaos cult again; he swore on the Golden Throne that he would destroy them utterly, no matter what it took…

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Hey Tim," Wulfric's normally cheerful voice sounded uncharacteristically strained, putting Timothy on alert.

Even Athena's attempt at a cheery wave was lacking, her shoulders hunched as she huddled on the end of Wulfric's bed, against all sorts of hospital regulations no doubt, looking very odd in a St Mungo's issue dressing gown, a white waffle weave thing that was a little too large.

He glanced around the private room the Healer-Assistant had led him to, but it seemed fairly standard fare for St Mungo's, pale green walls, old fashioned hospital furniture, a fake window showing a lush green landscape looking over a small river, pleasantly sunny with birds flitting past. There was even an en-suite bathroom he could just glimpse through a door.

Obviously Carrow had spared no expense when it came to the care of his subordinates, except that didn't explain the tense atmosphere of the room.

"I have brought supplies," he said holding up the two bags he'd pretty much had forced into his hands by Juno before he could leave the Lodge. "This one I believe is yours," he suddenly found himself in a short tug-of-war with Athena.

"Did Juno get my clothes?" she asked already rifling through.

"I…I assume so," Timothy said, handing the other bag over to an amused Wulfric.

"Real clothes," Athena triumphantly pulled out a colourful bundle, bouncing up and storming off to the privacy of the bathroom. "Don't mind me."

"So…," Timothy began, "I err…"

Feeling awkward he sank into the visitor's chair doing his best to ignore Wulfric's amused grin.

"How are you?" he asked, as Wulfric pulled the day's edition of the Daily Prophet out.

"My injuries?" Wulfric frowned down at the paper, "crap…what happened?" he held up the paper. Timothy winced as he took in the large moving photo of the inside of that blasted warehouse, debris piled up, dust particles dancing in the shaft of sunlight that streamed in through the enormous hole in the roof.

"Ah…yes," Timothy shifted uncomfortably on his chair, "Carrow…" he gestured helplessly.

Thankfully Wulfric seemed to understand, "you've got to admit Skeeter's getting pretty good with a camera…" He held up the paper at an image of one of the lab-victims, her delicate face expressive as she silently talked, her multiple hands clutching a very muggle foil blanket round her.

"She is…and how are you?" Timothy persisted, "or do I have to check your medical notes…" he reached for the clip-board that hung on the end of the bed-frame, nearly falling off his chair when a pillow struck him in the head.

"Seriously, I'm…we're fine. Athena's pretty much all healed…don't know why she's still here really…" Wulfric paused, drawing a breath, "I've lost a leg Tim."

He pulled back the blankets to expose his legs, his right, whole, still sporting bruises, and his left, abruptly halting just above the knee, swathed in bandages.

Mentally Timothy reeled, guilt and horror piling down on him even as his traitorous mind shoved one particular image at him…

"Next full-moon…you're going to be a tri-pod werewolf," the words slipped out before he could stop them. "Err…sorry," he stuttered, appalled at himself.

Wulfric stared at him a moment, clearly torn between punching him in the face and …a cough of laughter surprised him, leaving Timothy watching in concern as the werewolf succumbed, his amusement gradually fading into tears.

"Sorry," Wulfric wiped at his face. "Needed that. Everything's been…just…too much these last few days. Really missed you, you know…"

"Finally," Athena said as she burst out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. "I feel like a human being ag…"

The door to the room slammed open as Healer Slaughter stormed in, his face purple with rage, the door slamming shut behind him in an act of accidental magic Timothy was sure.

"Those bloody idiots," Slaughter screamed kicking out at the wall. "If this goes on I'm going to smash their bleeding heads in."

"Easier to hex them," Wulfric said.

"Boils on their bum-holes," Athena helpfully offered.

"Don't tempt me," Slaughter barred his teeth in a death-head grin.

"Precisely who needs boils on their…bum-hole?" Timothy asked watching them suspiciously.

Athena and Wulfric looked furtive under his scrutiny, but Slaughter heaved a sigh, his rage wilting away. "Bloody pure-blood bigotry," he snarled.

"He's a werewolf," he jabbed a finger at Wulfric. "I've already stopped some uppity little dick-bag from giving him a silver-based healing elixir…while he was unconscious."

Wulfric went very pale.

"And she's a muggle, they barely consider her human," he jerked a thumb at Athena.

Athena sneered. "As if having a wand makes them superior. They'd all be helpless without their silly little sticks."

"I should be insulted," Slaughter bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile, "but I'm not. Bloody wand up their back-side idiots that run this place think they're blocking beds for the more deserving gentle-witches and wizards injured in the Ministry," he sneered.

"I can understand them being upset, all those injured people," Athena folded her arms, "but did they have to be so fekkin rude about it. I'll happily give up my place to someone who's worse hurt, but to be told I don't deserve a bed in the first place, just because I can't fart sparkles out of a stick." She scowled.

A knock came at the door and Slaughter wrenched it open, the healing assistant on the other side jerking back in surprise as he loomed at her.

"That better be what I think it is," he growled as he grabbed the clip-board she warily thrust towards him.

"Sign here for their release," the witch snapped.

"Merlin's staff, it is the release papers," Slaughter said with fake cheer as he scrawled his signature. The witch ignored him, glaring round him at the occupants of the room until she caught Timothy's expression, flinching back, giving Athena one last glare before grabbing the clip-board and storming off.

"What's her problem," Athena said scowling at the now closed door.

"Probably didn't like your muggle clothes," Slaughter said.

"Hey, I'm dressed witchy style," Athena protested gesturing down at her outfit.

Timothy considered her outfit a moment. Baggy silver trousers that tapered to the ankles, a large sweatshirt with an all-over animated image of the night sky, the moon just beginning to make its appearance at the bottom, oil-slick coloured puffy looking trainers that shifted colours as she fidgeted under their attention. She'd even piled her blonde hair up in a messy knot held in place with what Timothy believed was a scrunchy.

"No," Slaughter said, "not really."

"In the Hollow maybe," Timothy said.

"But the Hollow doesn't really count," Wulfric pointed out, "it's a weird Carrow infected anomaly."

"Well, look at that," Slaughter laughed, "so we've found the one place Carrow hasn't managed to get his slimy tentacles into, more's the pity."

oOo

They really hadn't thought this through, Timothy sighed as he watched Wulfric eyeing up the main stairs of the Lodge, the gap where his leg should have been painfully obvious now he was up on crutches.

"Maybe the back stairs," he offered, then winced. The back stairs (originally for servants) were narrower and steeper than the grand, heavily carved, oaken sweep of the main stairs.

Wulfric hopped round on his crutches. "I'm not going to be defeated by bloody stairs," he snarled. "If I have to go up on my arse I will. I _am_ sleeping in my own bed tonight. No matter what."

"I could animate a chair and…" Timothy suggested but Wulfric cut him off.

"No. I'm getting upstairs under my own steam…it's just…" he hopped closer, "maybe if I…" he nearly dropped a crutch reaching for the banister.

"Here, hold these," Wulfric shoved the crutches into his arms.

"Arse it is," he hopped forward, folding forward awkwardly, only just avoiding mashing his face on the steps as he caught himself with his hands. Flipping himself round to sit, he levered himself up to the next step, Timothy slowly following as he settled into a rhythm, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he sped up.

In the distance came shrill giggles, a shout of "Artemis!"

"Oh Merlin," Wulfric chocked off laughter as the tiger in question poured round the dog-leg of the stairs, a bolster held in her jaws.

"Isn't that from the long-gallery," Timothy said as she oozed past him with her prize.

"Looks like it," Wulfric said. "Aren't they supposed to be like…antique or something, like hand-embroidered 18th century…one of the English Heritage people gave me a lecture about it, but I must admit, my brain turned off part way through."

Artemis had flopped onto her side now, sprawled across the tiled floor of the entrance hall, grasping the bolster with her front paws so she could better pedal at it with her hind limbs.

"I don't think it's going to be antique for much longer," Timothy winced at a particularly ugly rending sound.

"We didn't give it to her!"

Timothy looked round to find Felix glaring at him defiantly from the dog-leg, ears flicked back against his skull nearly hidden amongst his shaggy black hair. He plodded down towards them, the laces of his trainers flapping, Tiffany trailing in his wake.

He blinked as he took in her appearance, lime-green trainers, orange leggings and an enormous pink t-shirt patterned with unicorns and robots that moved like a drug induced hallucination.

Clearly a Night-market offering, it made Felix's bright red top with a roaring lion on the front look positively plain in comparison.

"She's more than capable of getting into trouble all by herself," Timothy said as the pair shuffled closer.

"In fact I recommend you both scram before house-keeping find you and condemn you by association. Carrow's probably in the training hall, maybe he'll let you practise some sword-play if you ask nicely."

The children looked at one another a moment before charging past, generating enough noise for a small herd of elephants as they sprinted for the kitchens and the Undercroft.

Timothy watched them go with a sigh. Behind him there was a nasty rending noise as Artemis disassembled her prize.

Something prodded his shin catching him on a still sore bruise and he flinched, looking down to find Wulfric attempting to kick him with his remaining foot.

"Hey Tim," he grinned. "Race you."

He took off, scrambling awkwardly round the dog-leg, levering himself up two, even three steps at a time. Timothy trailed slowly after him; it was something when the so-called invalid had more energy than him.

oOo

"What's _that_?" Caroline eyed the cup of frothy, pink tinged beverage Annie had placed in front of her warily.

"It's a sanguine-o-chino," Annie smiled as she sat down, gracefully spreading the skirts of her dress as she did. A dress that looked, in Timothy's opinion like a cross between a meringue and something a Victorian doll would wear.

He wasn't going to tell her that though, he valued his life.

"It might be Sanguine," Methuselah took a sip of the frothy concoction with a dubious expression. "I suspect it has had more to do with sugar than blood."

"So if we have to peel Annie off the ceiling…" Athena laughed, ignoring the little vampire's indignant glare.

"Can vampires get fat?" Juno asked. "Because if that's got loads of sugar in…"

"…Wh..wha…what if you only drank from people with high cholesterol?" Bradely offered, the discussion quickly degenerating into a discussion of the dubious merits of blood as a source of nutrients.

Timothy leant back in his chair, letting the friendly argument of the others wash over him, gazing up into the branches of the magically maintained orange tree that took centre stage in the café at the centre of the Night Market.

Above him, among the leaves, a trio of tree-fairies performed a dizzying aerial dance, their wings shimmering in the artificial illumination as they viciously fought, falling until they landed with a thud on the table nearly knocking the tongs from the sugar bowl.

Hissing and shrieking, their voices so high pitched they were barely audible, the trio of fairies tussled amongst the crockery until the loser pulled away, its wings slightly bent as it staggered into the air, Chuddy lazily swatting at it as it flittered past his face.

The café had allowed them to push a couple of tables together to accommodate them all, but still, despite their number he was still painfully aware of the missing faces, the new girl who they'd barely knew anything about, had barely got to know, she'd barely figured things out herself…

No Edwin asking where his sister was…no Natasha, wandering off trying to bite random people…no Charles even…

He almost fell out of his chair as a very pointy elbow jabbed him hard in the ribs. Looking round he found Wulfric smirking at him. "All right there?" the Werewolf asked, "nice bit of wool gathering you were doing there."

"…better design it ourselves, don't you think Timothy?" Juno was looking at him expectantly.

"I erm…" Timothy shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny of the others. "Sorry, I was…"

"Off in his thoughts," Wulfric smirked at his discomfort.

"Right," Timothy gave him glare that he completely ignored. "You were saying…" he gestured to Juno to continue.

"Yeah," Juno scowled over the table at him. "It's a given really that Edwin, Natasha and…the new girl are going to get some sort of memorial in the chapel. The Big Twat's going to insist…but maybe we should pre-empt him, design it ourselves."

"So we don't end up having to look at something dripping with bloody skeletons or something," Athena glared into her coffee.

"A nice plain plaque," Timothy said. "I'm sure if we put it to him the right way…"

His attention drifted as Chuddy put forward his very strong opinions on Carrow as a memorial designer, the others quickly joining in.

And so he found himself watching people passing by, the Night Market slowly filling up as the evening crowds starting pouring in, an odd mix of non-magical, wizards and witches not even trying to pass as ordinary, and various magical creatures, all clad in their idea of finery as they drifted among the many stalls, meeting friends, buying potions and other items of dubious origins.

He frowned as a group of giggling young women teetered past in towering heels, all with fluttering butterfly wings sprouting from their backs, in a rainbow display that contrasted with their silver dresses.

And they still didn't know what sort of long term effects these potions had on the non-magical, at all…

"…coven is dissolved."

Timothy's attention snapped back so fast he nearly got a crick in his neck, as a ripple of disbelief spread around the group.

"What?" he growled in disbelief.

"As of this evening," Annie smiled sadly, "the others have already left, but…but we decided to stay." She exchanged a glance with Caroline.

"We like it here," Caroline said, Annie nodding. "We like…all of you…"

"And working with you," Annie smiled, "we like working with you too."

Athena enveloped in the smaller women in a hug, Juno bouncing out of her chair to join in with Caroline.

"I want a hug too," Wulfric demanded, pouting as the ladies laughed at him. Athena humoured him, coming round to envelope him too, much to his delight.

Timothy turned away from the revolting display of emotion.

"Why?" he asked Methuselah.

Methuselah gave him a quizzical look.

"The coven…" he tried to clarify, "why…"

"Oh," Methuselah smiled in understanding. "Vampires tend to be rather solitary creatures, so for us to group together, we do it mainly for protection, from other vampires, those who hunt us for our worth on the apothecary shelf, those who just don't like vampires…it is almost unheard of for a vampire to die of old age, most barely make fifty years…"

"So…" Timothy frowned, puzzled, and a little alarmed.

"Yes, the coven was very much Charles and Edwin's," Methuselah continued. "Edwin managed to hold us together after Charles met such an untimely end, but when he died it was only a matter of time."

"That's sad," Timothy winced as Wulfric yelped. Athena had put an arm around his neck and was attempting to give him a friction burn on his head.

"Yes, I suppose." Methuselah nodded, "though I'm surprised we lasted as long as we did."

A chair clattered as Wulfric tried to get to a laughing Athena, wobbling to his lone foot as best he could, swiping at her ankles with his crutches as he told her exactly what he thought of her.

It was only a matter of time before they were asked to leave, Timothy winced, seeing the café staff glaring at them, edging closer, as Athena danced away from Wulfric, leading him on a slow and limping chase around the table, much to the amusement of the others.

"See, just like the Coven," Methuselah smiled. "Honestly lad," he patted his arm, "we're going to be fine. Here," he held up his cup of frothy coffee scented blood, "a toast to endings…and new beginnings."

Solemnly they clinked their cups together even as Wulfric hobbled behind them, still in snarling pursuit.

"To new beginnings," Timothy said, desperately ignoring the racket, "may they be bland and boring."

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Er…am I in some sort of trouble?" Matthew asked nervously as he discreetly eyed the parcel on the Adjutant's desk, trying not to draw any more attention to himself than necessary. The bloke standing in the corner was obviously military police, but as for the woman in a discreet charcoal trouser suit, he had no idea, except she was possibly one of the most boring looking people he'd ever seen.

"Not exactly," the Adjutant smiled at him over steepled fingers, _but you could be_ was merely implied. "It appears you have received a parcel, and it's not from your wife or mother. Well, are you going to open it?" He pushed the parcel towards Matthew with a predatory smile.

Maybe Timmo had finally snapped and sent him a box of scorpions or something. Matthew gave the brown paper wrapped parcel a wary once over, before gingerly unpeeling the paper at one end. It failed to explode, bite him or otherwise move in any way.

After that it became quickly apparently the sender had absolutely no idea how to wrap a parcel and they were absolutely doing it for keeps, using whatever had been to hand, including what looked like an entire roll of duct-tape. Swearing under his breath, he finally pulled the last of the packing free to reveal a hefty leather bound tome and a neatly folded letter sealed with a blob of red wax imprinted with…he tilted the thing in the light…a skull superimposed on a stylised "I"

"Oh bloody hell," he muttered unable to hide his dismay. Now he looked, yeah, bloody double-headed eagle embossed on the front of the book surrounded by a stylised laurel wreath. Gingerly, he cracked the letter open.

"… _much pleasure in reading the rough draft of your treatise…"_

Oh…oh, bloody buggering _fuck_.

"… _it is a pleasure to see such a desire to broaden your knowledge of combatting the more elusive and heinous of Humanity's many enemies. To assist you in your endeavour I have gathered together some of my thoughts on the topic…"_

Timmo must have given the giant freak that copy of the zombie hunting manual, and this, he eyed the book suspiciously, this was the violent bastard's response…oh fuck.

"… _you will excuse my ramblings. I could not help adding the odd anecdote to illustrate my methods…"_

Right now the box of scorpions was looking like a fantastic idea. Matthew ran a hand down his face, trying to fight down the bubble of hysterical laughter that was trying to burst out.

"Aren't you going to open it?" the boring woman asked, far too eager looking for Matthew's liking.

Expecting something horrifying to crawl out, he carefully lifted the cover, feeling slightly foolish when only a title page of sorts was revealed.

 _An Illustrated Treatise of the Combatting_

 _of the Numinous and Daemonic Enemies of Humanity._

 _By the Grace of the God-Emperor of Mankind._

 _Inquisitor Allesandor Darius Carrow._

Opposite was a highly detailed and gruesome ink drawing of a man in armour that bore a passing resemblance to Carrow's monstrous suit, locked in fierce combat with a horrific amalgamation of tentacles and mis-jointed limbs.

Next to it was a small note, _"Bit of an exaggeration"_ , written, to Matthew's bemusement, in red biro. He blinked, feeling almost sun-dazzled; the handwriting, it was almost as if it were trying to lift off the page, it was so full of energy.

Blinking rapidly, he wrenched his eyes away from the page, only to find everyone leaning forward, attempting to read upside down.

"Numinous and daemonic…" the MP muttered, "what?"

"I know this looks beyond weird," Matthew tried to explain, "but this had a lot to do with that incident that I can't talk about at that place that I can't mention."

"Right." The Adjutant seemed completely unimpressed.

The boring woman pointed a trembling finger. "The red handwriting…whose is it?" she snapped.

Matthew scratched his head, squinting at the page once more. "I don't know…err, it does say something about…comments and amendments courtesy of the God-Emperor of Mankind, true ruler, protector and guide of Humanity…er, _what?!_ "


End file.
